Morning Prayer
Tis the season of giving. The Spotlight folks are in the mood. Thus
they have graciously relaxed the
ules for this month's column so that Marshall Moore may offer us, in writing, the gift he
gave orally
at the November Hoot:
Morning Prayer
(of a young oarsman and poet who died by the water)
Some crisp silent ginger snap in-the-nose October morning, early,
so early that scent is sight, your cup your light, hot cider sweet
with cinnamon spice, before the sun god's steeds awake to rear, kick and lick
at the edges of the midnight, well before the whole autumn jack-o-lantern world
alights, children's cheeks sugar maples apples pumpkins red orange and bright,
come, come softly, my friend, to the river again and sit, knees
bent, your broad back pressed easy against a hardwood tree,
and listen to the whisper of the day's first breeze, to the thin whistle
in the mallard's wing, to the water wizard's wave of wand above a rising stream,
and to the rhythm in rowing boats…to the simple song of sculls and sweeps.
Come at the turning hour, your smoky breath held tight,
and tilt back your head, straight back to see the seam in the stars,
the big zipper between dawn and night, smell the earth and the weed
and the fish in the flats, feel the moon's pull in the salt strong tide running
up the bank, along the dock, behind your buckled belt, down your spine…
and cast your eye downstream and east with the great heron's slow
fanning flight, past sassy spartina, past saffron haze curling, cobras
from baskets, above the mirrored face of our little serpentine creek
and grasses, to the Great Bay, to the open water, and now, just now,
to the big sky, a fresh canvas marbled with the new wide-opening day.
And smile to know that I loved this so, this great shell game, this
gift you gave,
this ebb and flow helping ships and friendships row and, in a world inverted,
share in my discovery of a second family and second home-this uncommon
congregation and, above below, this strong sleek and sure-ribbed hull-
my meeting house, my temple, my high-vaulted Renaissance cathedral dome.
--Marshall C. Moore
Happy Holidays from all of us at the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program. - JP
"Morning Prayer" copyright Marshall C. Moore, 2003. Marshall is a rowing coach from Exeter who studied literature at Harvard and has a law degree from Fordham. This is his first published poem. Note: Exception proves the rule: Poems from The Poetry Hoot should not exceed nineteen lines.
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