Poetry: Minor Revelation

the morning is soft upon me,

little more than mist filling my lungs

as I breathe in the sweet mountain air

and feel the cool of it on my skin

my bare feet on the wooden porch steps,

yet feeling like roots of a great tree

sinking down into ancient soil,

and feeling like the gargoyle freezing

back to stone with dawn’s light

stout coffee from a heavy china cup

stained with use and misuse,

as marked as the dry ground

under the soft shower of rain that

waters it, a gift from a gardener who

has been lax in their duty

the ground is too thirsty to complain

and gulps the rain down like a tonic

and everything turns green and

opens up as the sunlight filters through

the fog, and dances in speckled gold

against the brilliance of the day’s creation

and I am there breathing it in,

sipping my bitter brew and ruminating

on the events of the day before and

the tasks at hand for this new day

and feeling as though I am part of

something bigger than myself

it is a reminder that I am made of

threads woven together, that hold

everything in this world together

a minor revelation, as befits a small

and humble reveler of simple pleasures

who spilled wine in clumsy tribute to

Bacchus just the night before, a merry

and raucous occasion meant for

moonlight and deep woods and

a good front porch that faces the sunrise