Another Morning 

They visited me this morning,
in the small hours
before the sun,
in the first minutes
when the birds stir.
They were just outside
my window,
gently gathered,
sitting high in the branches
of the trees.
The milled maple skin,
the brown, grey-green
and blue eyes,
of my long gone kin.
I was awake,
so no dream
can claim author.
I was sober
as coffee in the kettle,
and no wine’s
red enough
to mischief such events.
They were
all-together lovely,
lean and handsome,
dressed as if
they took their affection
for one another
I could smell the pie,
rhubarb and strawberry
I could hear their voices,
a gentle pouring lilt
of molasses.
I could see my Granpa,
my Bumpa,
as he stood nimbly,
in the tender
upper reaches of the tree.
As day’s first light
touched his face,
he licked his lips,
he raised his trombone,
and blew
three humble notes
into the awakening.

I am sorry,
but that was all,
that is where it ends.
They were gone,
my kin from the branches,
climbed down
and back to earth.
They left no caution,
no encouragement,
no insight.
They simply left me
another morning.