Upon the Morning by Susan Hendrickson
Pudding Magazine #57
I saw a woman
half submerged in the ground
sitting in the comfort of weeds
nibbling on some timothy.
She ran her teeth, berry-stained,
over the translucent green stems
entered into the sweetness of the world
that sky-bright moment.
Within her solitary warren
hugging the mysteries of the day
to herself, I knew she was me
and I knew she woke me up.
These are days of self-credence;
the gossamer growing thin
the crave for minute beauty, gentle
recognition begins to surpass itself.
Nuances are filament sheer. I gather
the hush of sleep as I wake
to the whisper of conundrums
still rocking the cradle called I.