AN ETHEREAL NOTE
In the morning light, the orange tabby sits atop a chair and waits,
diurnally, like the birdsong arising from the pit of this small valley
after my boyfriend goes down 22 steps to his sun- fire red truck and
drives off to work.
What awakens the birds from slumber? Is it the fading light from
the last star in the sky, or the regurgitating sound of the truck's engine.
after my boyfriend goes down 22 steps to his sun- fire red truck and
drives off to work.
What awakens the birds from slumber? Is it the fading light from
the last star in the sky, or the regurgitating sound of the truck's engine.
The morning sky is gray, yet a patch of blue so light and luminescent
is quilted in the western sky, an ethereal note that this day will be good.
How many times in our lives have we needed a whisper of beauty
to make it through, after the alarm clock goes off once again, and
to make it through, after the alarm clock goes off once again, and
another day begins, similar to yesterday, yet different.
Did the ancients experience routine in their lives?
Or did they live in the mystery enough.
So that each day they woke up,
So that each day they woke up,
thrilled to see another sunrise,
thrilled to be alive.
- Pranita Patel
(c) 2015
