by Michael H. Brownstein

DAYLIGHT

I wake to a thunder from inside,

another clash of infection,

the bank crying about a lacking,

the phone company barking,

the fence degrading and then

one of our dogs jumps over

and I cannot find her anywhere.

I’ve got to go to work, I have

errands and deeds and paperwork,

but this will need to be put on hold,

The dog is found, safe. One check

to the good, I fix the fence, pull

a few weeds, a beginning tree,

and reinforce the leaning.

It’s already a hundred outside,

sunlight behind a humidity of clouds,

and then the news comes through—

a granddaughter, born four AM,

six pounds, healthy, already beautiful—

and sun breaks through the cloud cover,

the sunlit blossoms by the far wall

open their beautiful yellow faces,

the rose bush opens its red mouths,

the tiny white flowers, the lilacs,

the dandelions, the ripening mulberries

and all is right with my world.

###

THE GRANDFATHER POEMS 

©  All work is copyrighted.