Moon Day Morning
I slept in a new shirt
to be ready for your singing dawn.
The cat alarmed me before the clock
and the door, church like, opened
to the grey curtain of the northwest
and the eastern ridge aglow.
The yoke of the full moon
broke over the ocean
and the town’s outskirts. Traffic,
paces the fog, paves through
the redwoods, puts people
in their place.
The ordinary praise of escaping breath
marks the morning good. Birds raise
the standard. The sky, enlarged
by looking, houses all perspective.
If we call it prayer we call it by
another name for a rose.