Two Poems by Morgan Richards

 

 

Awakening

This morning, we'll linger

a minute or two before abandoning

this dream:  our barefoot wanderings

into and out of each other, an intricate

tangle of forsythia.

 

You imagine the world as a web

into which we must weave ourselves:  you

and I, one florescent thread, delicately spinning

through miles of steamy summer storms, through

damp piles of red leaves, through black

forests bordering frozen ponds.

 

Listen.  We're waking to a pattern bright

with birdsong.  Already dew is glistening

in our path.

 

 

I Will Not Watch the News

because when I opened my eyes this morning,

I saw through the window dark clouds creeping

 

over bare mountains, ominous enough without

me turning on the TV and hearing the same thing

 

I might have heard yesterday:  all sins were committed

in the last 24 hours.  And God knows if I've heard

 

one scandal, I've heard them all.  Last night

my father called to tell me what the doctor said:

 

the treatments are not working; my mother will die

of breast cancer, just like her Grandmother Wy:  history

 

does repeat itself.  When the Twin Towers fell, I watched

from three states away, live via-satellite; I watched

 

with hand over mouth, breath held, watched as clouds spread

over skyscrapers, and I could do nothing.   Now another tower

 

falls before my eyes and I need not rely on CNN to brief

me on my helplessness:  last night's sharp decline

 

in complacency is rolling through my mind like ticker-tape, and

this morning's coffee, like acceptance, burns all the way down.