Harbinger

This entry is part 85 of 93 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2011

Dark silhouettes of pine, valleys fanned out
as open-sided buses crest the ridge at dawn.

Frost-trails of breath lingering on the coldest
morning of the month so far. Tin shanties hold

their chilled sides close along the hills.
In one, a naked lightbulb: its tungsten

yellow glow above a kitchen sink,
where a grandmother is heating coffee

and putting the eggs in it to boil.
You glimpse her in the window as the bus

rolls by— lit end of her cigar
poised in her mouth, eyes scanning

the day for what warmth it will bring.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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5 Comments


  1. You glimpse her in the window as the bus/rolls by— lit end of her cigar
    poised in her mouth, eyes scanning/the day for what warmth it will bring.

    A MOUNTAIN PRAYER

    They will come home today, I know that.
    It is the coldest morning this month.

    That’s when they come and feast on my
    rice cakes, that’s when they come.

    They will build a little manger in the grove,
    out of banana stalks and dried leaves.

    Look at that, I burned my lips with the lit end
    of my cigar. Could be an omen. Who is ill?

    Great Kannoyan, god of my fathers, protect
    my little ones, I need them to come home.

    On this cold morning, I hope I could share
    brewed rice coffee with them before I go.

    — Albert B. Casuga
    09-16-11

    Reply

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