Sunday, March 11, 2007
We Saw Brightblack Morning
by Adam Edell
Need to get out to the desert this year.
New Mexico? Arizona? Nevada?
Sand, arched wolves, a full-bellied moon, eclipsed…
They touched their instruments like sacred objects,
notes floating upon an ashen incantation.
What I heard was "yeah, yeah"
but what I saw was my father at my age,
a wife and a child on the way.
Saw a row of blue corn, bending their bean-stalked ears towards starlight,
listening for those whispered glimmers,
shed a century before.
Crossed paths with a blue-eyed husky,
his questionmark tail aloft that low spring breeze.
We harvested sunchoke
(Winter roots born
from ragged, slumbering soil),
their sad sweetness, a burden of the last frost.
That drone goes on / you feel like you're lost,
like they forgot about you
leaning against a brick symphonic wall with one foot in a puddle.
But upon opening eyes, the reforming melody
the unpocketed smile, the barest hint of rhythm,
an awoken cymbal among brushed snakeskins.
They crash together in a new song,
with every wave comes a reunion of what you long for.
And so why does it hurt to be so rewarded?
Need to get out to the desert this year.
New Mexico? Arizona? Nevada?
Sand, arched wolves, a full-bellied moon, eclipsed…
They touched their instruments like sacred objects,
notes floating upon an ashen incantation.
What I heard was "yeah, yeah"
but what I saw was my father at my age,
a wife and a child on the way.
Saw a row of blue corn, bending their bean-stalked ears towards starlight,
listening for those whispered glimmers,
shed a century before.
Crossed paths with a blue-eyed husky,
his questionmark tail aloft that low spring breeze.
We harvested sunchoke
(Winter roots born
from ragged, slumbering soil),
their sad sweetness, a burden of the last frost.
That drone goes on / you feel like you're lost,
like they forgot about you
leaning against a brick symphonic wall with one foot in a puddle.
But upon opening eyes, the reforming melody
the unpocketed smile, the barest hint of rhythm,
an awoken cymbal among brushed snakeskins.
They crash together in a new song,
with every wave comes a reunion of what you long for.
And so why does it hurt to be so rewarded?