This morning was first morning of the year
When I awakened to the sound of birds
Singing as they looked for worms in earth.
So sweet the charming sound,
I wasn’t sure to cry or smile,
Opened curtains and shared the mirth
With visiting shadow dancing on the wall.
But as I danced, the shadow moved
Grotesquely as though now drunk,
Though I had no jug of wine.
I sang, though not as sweetly as a morning bird…
Suddenly as though they heard
Birds flew on their way.
Now rejected by both shadow and birds,
I go in search of morning wine.
By dusk, no doubt now drunk,
Body heavy with warm wine’s weight,
Spinning trees wave their woolen trunks,
Limbs and branches twist and join intoxicated dance.
Together as March winds bend our bodies,
Strange shapes of shadows at warped edge of wood,
Pagan squirrels watch the evening fall,
Uproot the world and join in echo’s song.
Who could sleep half-buried under grape,
Remember morning songs of birds
Worming into dreams, sensing sanity of blood
Drown intemperate, trodden on the floor?
Beware, I say, early morning birdsong
That leads to excessed vintage wealth.