Every morning, I wake up, get dressed, go downstairs to let the dogs out,
to start breakfast, I pick up the camera,
switch it on, choose a lens, feel it’s good and heavy weight in my hand,
snap everything into place, put on my cap, my boots.
I love the sound of the old farmhouse,
creaking and groaning a bit, like a beautiful
old steamship setting out of the harbor,
proud and steady. So quiet, the soft yellow
light spreading gently across the big old rooms.
I feed the cats, let the chickens out of the barn,
throw them some pumpkin seeds, and I
yell good morning up the hill to Simon, a donkey I love,
who brays good morning back to me.
The sun is soaring over the big barn,
lighting up the hillside like a spotlight on Broadway.
Inside again, I look out of every window.
Where, I wonder, is the light this morning?
Shining on what? Casting what shadows?
And my heart beats with excitement. What can I love today?
What can I look forward to? What will come into my life,
And I look up the stairs and smile with gratitude to you, my heart, curled up
asleep in bed, a baby’s sleep, so deep and untroubled and pure.
Come down to me. I am waiting with your buttered muffin,
your tea, your bowl of fruit, with colors mixed, arranged in an arc,
the way an artist would want, would deserve.