Who me? Up at dawn? Still alive.
My hands on a cold carcass
filling empty cavity with bread.
Oven smell like burnt caramel
and remembered remorse.
A splash of orange juice
to chase and taste.
Sniff of thyme, chopped rosemary
to enhance and awake.
Shove it all away on low
heat to bake and contain
juices of former life.
Bend and tie on boots over socks
over heavy pants and coat.
Sun peeking through gray fog.
Then away to stomp over damp
leaves clinging to mud,
slipping over spots of snow.
Dance with Cedars
dressed like southern belles,
skirts sweeping in flounces to earth.
Play hide and seek with sharp-nosed faces,
whose tales jabber like interwoven
notes and waddle into depths.
And hold emptiness inside
with wide eyes, like the Big leaf maples
who twist above like upheld hands
bare of any dressing.
Purity of purpose, of intent.
Lead on. Feed on. Live.
And thank Earth and God and dawn
from someplace deep inside
for the flush of harvest gifts.