It’s Morning - Bruce Moody

[Larry Robinson]

It’s Morning
 
How every morning I wish to clutter your arms with jewels,

rubies no basket could hold, diamonds no velvet set.
 
It is simply the morning I offer,
and if not being explicit, this one,
with its white sky and the bare small shrug of the pepper tree leaves.
 
Such happiness is a color all its own.
Like purple or like dogs or birds.
 
Listen, you don’t even have to be here to get this.
Everything I say is already here behind your eyes.
The whole treasure, the whole loot is yours to loot and treasure.
 
For what could I add to the skin of your being alive?
What medal could I pin on your breast to douse that birth-given privilege?
 
Words come your way here because I’m proud to know you.
And I send this poem along as a casserole to your doormat.
 
Don’t worry. No one had died within. The sickness you talked to yourself about
actually went out with yesterday’s slops. Happiness
 
called from across the hedge. Happiness arrived in the comic jalopy
of this poem. It’s morning. It’s morning of everything!

	- Bruce Moody
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