That summer we spent in some
forest-hugged cabin,
far from dune blooms and
salty seas spraying-
you sulked.
Unimpressed by
the mute of mountain sunrise-
missing the endless,
flame-tempered stretch of
shoreline sunups, their
burnt orange and red.
I, enamored by Sehandoah’s
subtle blush,
rose early to watch
blue peaks frothed
by lavender from our
cabin’s tree-breached porch.
One morning,
while screech owls still bounced
their hoots through
ashen gray,
you crept out
holding hot breakfast tea
and ten cartoned eggs.
“You take sugar, right?“
Before I can answer,
show thanks for your gesture,
for this favor was an eery
break of brood character-
you curl back your fist and,
with a flourish of wrist,
hurl an egg straight
at the nearest maple.
Crack.
The break is sudden,
wet, and
startlingly satisfying.
“That-“
you say,
watching florid yolk streak
the dark tree,
“Is what a sunrise
is supposed to be.“
You slink back inside,
and I’m left standing,
alone, clutching a cup
of sickly sweet tea,
and wondering when,
if at all,
you’ll stop getting
so angry with our
court-mandated visiting.
Pink shyly
daubs the sky,
quite faint,
and I think
you might have a knack
for making
a point.
pm poetry 