What is this morning?
this quiet ecstasy of life stretching out across the world
so enormously calm?
What is this sun?
this glowing silence streaming
from the edge of heaven?
What is this air that feels so soft awake—
and smells so curious sharp—
so alive—like living peace—
like peace so close—
so around me I could drink it?
And that tree!
What is that breathless wealth of gold-edged green
so still against the depth of heaven—
so motionlessly straight and huge and stretching out and up?
What is the silence of that tree?
This quiet gladness—
this sober joy—
what is this morning?

She didn’t say it quite like that
(nine is much too true an age for such)
but I saw it in her widening eyes
lit with a glory of wonder,
and I felt it in the shiver of her little shoulder
and how she sat so straight beside me on the porch swing
where we were having our morning coffee and the sun was rising.

Her question was too big.
My answer was too much.
She understood it though, I think,
because I saw the wonder in her wide eyes
grow wider, and then something more came,
and I think it came to both of us.
and we were quiet then.

CM 5/’15

portrait on brickConrad Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.

One thought on “Conrad Martin: Nine at Sunrise”

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