Sunday morning: a tribute to Wallace Stevens

The yellow flower in cut glass on my table
had fallen formerly against the wind.
It greeted me this morning bright, unchanged
after the night of murmured questionings
and hollow chimings of the restless clock
that stormed the shallow waters of my sleep
While curtains billowed, eerie night came in
upon me, as I lay and quaked defenceless
against the terrors of antiquity.

Now Sunday morning’s winter light is silent
until I decorate it with my music
that brings the symphony into the room.
O luxuries of modern days --
Where is the ancient terror now?
With break of dawn, light changes everything.
The morning’s terrorless, and sounds of rain
and cars on the paved streets below my window
are somehow peaceful, hopeful, reassuring.
Each day’s a new beginning now as then
when ancient wizards squatted by their fires
or when medieval minstrels waked in Sherwood
to play a happy tune upon their lyres
in thankfulness of this new day, a gift.

And so I lift my teacup in salute
to this new day of hope that’s just been born.
The honey’d tea that trickles down my throat
is sweet ambrosia on this Sunday morn.

(a tribute to Wallace Stevens)