"Dawn comes up like thunder ..." wrote Kipling.
Most mornings dawn comes up as I eat breakfast,
breakfasts are much the same
the dawns are different every day.
Today's dawn valiantly took possesion
of the cloudy sky. I do not believe in omens.
An hour later as I write the clouds sit
on a dove breast soft gray at the horizon
while the sun is climbing over the dove's
back and into a clear blue sky.
But I do not believe in omens.
I will not see this as a promise,
I fear for what the year will bring,
not to me personally, I am OK in many ways,
but for our country, for the wreckage
of the good that has begun,
the tearing down of individual rights
the danger to our environment
and the tormoil likely to increase
in among nations under a leader the majority
did not vote for, a leader so unstable
so ignorant and arrogant I fear nothing good
can come when he takes office. Thunder!
His thundering voice brings lightening, hail,
limb tearing wind, torrential rains.
I do not believe in omens,
but I believe in metaphors. Thunder ...
the voice that would shout down an opponent
that would spew hatred and fear
the ugly smugness on the face in yesterday's news.
The mid-70s are a surprise! Part of me remains in the 50s -- age, I mean, not decade of 20th century. It's a joy ride, new experiences land in my lap and I've become a better quilter, poet, writer than I expected. It's a rich life for a person never rich financially. Hey, this is what the mid-70s are like!