Morning of the World
If not for the bare feet of the sanctified,
the tight-coiled river would not have bent
to the depths of the delta, cup of the heartdeep
rinsed out, never poured, and
none of us would have gone trooping
over the high hill where the sun called
each blade of bluestem glittering
beneath its burden of dew, where the quail
sprang from their thickets as we forged
a green path to the shifting bars of sands.
Dream-splintered, capsuled, none
would have come there, none of us
come to be known. We would have stayed small
if not for that.
….
This is the title poem from the chapbook Morning of the World by Jane Wiseman (Finishing Line Press), and can be found at https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/morning-of-the-world-by-jane-wiseman/
Jane Wiseman, a transplanted southeasterner from small-town Virginia, is a poet who now splits her time between the rural Sandia Mountains of New Mexico and very urban south Minneapolis. Living and working in so many different kinds of places has enriched her work.
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