Early Morning

Early Morning

The sky hasn’t decided what to be—

cloudy or clear.  It hasn’t read the forecast,

nor have I.  What can I do with the gift

of another day?  I feel light headed—

a new allergy?—and hope for the best.

A robin hops across the lawn, too early

for the first worm, and meets a friend paler

than he.  There’s a thread I should follow but

don’t know which way nor which end to pick up. 

I talked about this with my friend, long since gone. 

Another friend waits in a hospital bed. 

Each breath could be his last.  Too early

to call, too late to find that thread which winds

through the dark into a sky like this one,

not yet decided what to be.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        9 April 2012