April Morning

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There is something about the morning light in April, the way it slants across the world, that catches me in my throat and makes me gasp for the loveliness of it all. This year is no different. We've had precious few days of morning sun in Oregon this year. No wonder Mark went out to capture a few photos first thing this morning, before church.

I wrote this poem about the April light several years ago. It's still one of my favorites. In one of the revisions I played with making it all into one long sentence, hence the title, which also works with the idea that we are sentenced to mortality without Christ.

 Sentence.

Quiet

on this early

April morning

the dew gathers itself

to dandelion leaves

that do not tremble 

with the weight,

and as I look

across the lawn, 

which is largely the dandelions, undesirables, 

they raise their yellow heads, shining like an anthem

transfigured

out of weediness

and all because

the dew,

drawn

to the dandelion

leaves

now pulls this

early April

sunlight,

slant-wise

across the lawn,

until the silver

light

is altered,

succumbs,

yields,

and is fractured,

refracted

into a million promises

in April, early April

that I, even I

may be

redeemed.