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

Passover

Passover

I wake to a morning white and clean,

as one of the first born spared,

even though we forgot to stain

the lintel and door posts red again.

Beneath, grass struggles to cast off

winter’s spell.  Seeds planted in faith 

make ready to sprout new green, 

no track to show where the doe had been.

Tomorrow this snow will all be gone.

The sun will chart his path another degree

farther north.  Time to rejoice, to raise

my voice once more in grateful praise

to him for whose deliverance

I have no way to recompense.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        7 April 2012

Dreams

Dreams

Any dream is better than no

light in the dark.  No matter

how bad, at the end you wake up.

The next dream you may want

to keep past morning into afternoon. 

Or say it’s worse. Well, then,

just open your eyes.

Sometimes a dream recurs

until you write it down. 

Then you don’t have to dream

it over again.  You can read

what you wrote and say

it’s time to move on. 

One more dream, your last. You wait

at the edge of the river.  Clouds open

and all the dark will be gone.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        6 April 2012

Conjugations

Conjugations

I am that I am

I am hath sent me

Before Abraham was I am

You are little children

You are a gift unto the Lord

You are mine

He is the Lord

He is my brother

He is coming

We are strangers

We are servants

We are the offspring of god

We are the people

of his pasture and

the sheep of his hand

                    —Donnell Hunter

                            5 April 2012

                                      

Porcupine

    Porcupine

Two porcupines dead

on the road

within a mile

this morning,

the first I've

seen all season.

No tire scuff

marks where death

came in the night,

guard hairs still

in place, no

streak of blood

nor scattered quills,

everything tidy

like sleeping.  No

it was more

like praying over

folded paws.

Oh Kaheta, friend of the Paiute, only a starving

man would take your life, giving thanks to four

winds.  You never rushed into anything.  But we

have forgotten the old gods.  We worship diesel,

the sleek sedan.  Pray for us, for the wide path of

our intentions paved with stone.

                          —Donnell Hunter

         Previously Published in  Jam To-day December 1983;  Children of Owl 1985;  Harvest 1989

Landscaping

Landscaping

Transplanting prickly

pears reveals a tiny hole

in my buckskin gloves.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                        3 April 2012

Reflections

Reflections

Each time I carve an inlay,

an owl looks away

or at me with one eye.

Three times I found the right

tree with a burl someone else

threw away.

It’s been windy all week,

this first day of Spring.

No leaves to hop across the lawn.

When we twain became one,

before long we were three.

I walk home whistling.

The tune doesn’t matter— 

no notes to come out wrong.

My father was thin, his voice

soft when he said, “Be like the sun.”

He’s never far.

In dreams I remember

the apple tree we used to climb.

Beyond the window new sounds,

maybe a breeze unfurls

the flag or grass bends to hide

the beginning from the end.

On the day he left

he held his hat in one hand

and opened the door

for mother on the other side

of the car.

The light turned green.

No one saw what happened,

nor heard the tires scream.

That was half my life ago.

My youngest son, now half my age,

doesn’t feel the slope going down.

No mountain left to climb,

one more river to cross,

lower this year than it’s ever been.

It could snow tomorrow

though it may turn to rain.

Time to plant or to prune

back the cedar limbs.

—Donnell Hunter

                            2 April 2012