Blizzard near Emporia, 1893

It must be morning: I can hear the birds
Bitching at each other, or else some cat's around,
Sly enough to make them squeal.

Thank God the angels play harps
And not banjos. Who'd want to wake each day
To breakdowns in heaven, steel reels for the cloudhoppers?

Must I rise, as the sun does, busy and ambitious,
Or can I model myself
On the laidback horizon, that latitude I long for?

Last night, thunder with both barrels at full bore,
And buckshot of rain rattling the roof.
Even the stars kept their heads down, their eyes closed.

I slept through lightning and gutterfloods,
My body twitching like some
Deranged baby of middle age, suckled on nightmares.

And now, past dawn in late spring,
Air smooth and warm around me, as if I were
Swaddled in suede,

A quick of sudden peace, silence in which
I could mouth my early prayers—
But to whom? And for what?

Must I ease out of bed again
On the wrong side of life, and walk into morning
With one blue sock, one black?

Up, says the robin. Up, screams the jay.
It's a fight to the last feather, until the cat's
Got your tongue.

Shake off this queasy sleep. The day's
Already racing down the flowerheads, only
One short step to the frost.