Sunday 7/25/10

Today we gather to remember Judy Popkin … and another morning, 11 years ago … 7/31/99 to be exact.

RIP Judy … RIP.

Why I Love Mornings

by Nancy Boutilier

Ah, the possibility
of the uncut tree
all the blank pages it holds
the unwritten words that
will carve their way
into branches
leaves
roots

The unopened gifts of morning
the untrammeled           untraveled
unimagined                      unseen
unsounded                        unmet
the ground still wet
or fresh with snow
something lost
or found.

I love the sunrise
for its seductive rays
inching themselves across
life’s contours
inviting darkness out of corners
as night recedes
leaving the day smooth and untracked
like tide-soothed sands along the shore

I stand above the city
as the slow light
holds steadfast
a dull glow in the face of fog.
The sun is up
and day begins to settle
subtle and persevering
above the sparkling bay.

Below, the highway stretches
itself tight across the terrain.
The cars making their daily journeys
glisten with the possibility of changing
direction
taking the wrong exit
to the left or right
place.

How does one leave
without leaving behind?
How can I write the words
and let the tree stand?
Where does the dew go dry to
as the sun peels off the ordinariness of it all?
What will this day reveal?
What will the sun let fall?

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3 Responses to Sunday 7/25/10

  1. Thanks so much for stopping by … and sharing thoughts/memories/dreams of Judy. Eleven years … and lots of remembering.

    See you in a few hours, Karen … and Elizabeth/Serena … Wow – it has been awhile! Tonight the femmes are singing at Shaker Village … will think of you!
    Jordy

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  2. Thanks, Jordy. I ran across your blog on my birthday last week – searching for old friends. And Judy’s been on my mind, and in my dreams, this past month. So thanks for the poem. Perfect. It’s good to find you online. – Serena (formerly Elizabeth)

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  3. Karen says:

    Beautiful poem–conjures up vivd images, Jord. It hardly seems possible that 11 years have passed. Judy lives through our stories. Yes, there are tears…and laughter–as we remember.

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