This morning shows up at my bedside
like a mother holding a glass of water,
so I say thank you, glancing out the window
at the tiny farmhouse flung into the lap
of emerald hills below, and feel the sweetness
sleep has brought, such sweetness I feel
I could pen a volume on the history of sugar,
and make readers love it. I am giddy
with the lack of war, of pain, amazed
at the silent terrible wonder of my health.
So I make a rosary of the room, I pray
the bedpost, the window panes. I put
our children on two doorknobs, our sick
friends on chair rungs. Like the aperture
of a camera, the morning opens and keeps on
opening till the room is filled with rosy
light and I could believe anything,
that my ancient mother may still get well
and thrive, that later when someone robs
the bank, all the tellers may survive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem