"When everything else has gone from my brain ... what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that." Annie Dillard
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Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The Place Called Morning
When I can't sleep, sometimes Emily Dickinson comes to mind:
"Will there really be a morning? Is there such a thing as day?
And then, at the end, "Please to tell a little pilgrim/Where the place called morning lies."
A place called morning: I imagine it gray and windswept, the land still scoured by night, a new day awakening from slumber, pulling itself together, splashing water on its face.
Or, I see it riding in on clouds of light, the most important guest at the ball. A bit overdressed, perhaps.
Or, I hear it first. Not this time of year, but in spring, when the early robin, that upstart, belts out his pre-dawn tune.
This time of year, mornings are black and still, a kingdom of stars and frost in the lamplight.