Tuesday, June 24, 2008

two by anne sexton

Young

A thousand doors ago
when I was a lonely kid
in a big house with four
garages and it was summer
as long as I could remember,
I lay on the lawn at night,
clover wrinkling over me,
the wise stars bedding over me,
my mother's window a funnel
of yellow heat running out,
my father's window, half shut,
an eye where sleepers pass,
and the boards of the house
were smooth and white as wax
and probably a million leaves
sailed on their strange stalks
as the crickets ticked together
and I, in my brand new body,
which was not a woman's yet,
told the stars my questions
and thought God could really see
the heat and the painted light,
elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Welcome Morning

There is joy in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle that
heats my coffee each morning,
in the spoon and the chair that cry
"hello there, Anne" each morning,
in the godhead of the table that
I set my silver, plate, cup upon each morning.

All this is God, right here in my pea-green house
each morning and I mean, though often forget,
to give thanks, to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing as the holy birds
at the kitchen window peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard, dies young.

1 comment:

Dawn on MDI said...

Somehow, poetry does not seem so smarmy when you recommend it. Thanks for sharing those. I liked them. And great for mom, that she's improving. Good for her and for you and for your dad. Happy thoughts your way!