Mornings the Past Comes Back

Mornings the past comes back, a series of landslides.
And the sun comes back. Awash in sleep
you sought rest in the mineral dark where colors ripen.
Now you watch air’s breath cross pond like a hand on a horse.
Happiness to have wandered into the future perfect,
a place in the mind with a past of its own, a past that hasn’t happened yet.
Happiness of rain. Of tune’s marrow in old song.
A cloud the size of a small town drifts slowly eastward.
Ferns begin the long descent into coal.
Plants in the window: on the floor moonlight has printed their images.
Michael O’Brien
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