Poem at 7, Late July Morning

Anne Rossen

This isn’t the poem that would have been

written at five today. The light is bright now,

not shadowy, alluring. The birds have quit

their matins and the quotidian sounds enveloping me —

Dishes clanging in the kitchen from the breakfast gang,

newspaper pages rustling as readers make

their way through the latest word, an airplane

roaring overhead, and neighborhood lawnmowers

picking up its charge as it passes —

Leave no room for illusion,

are not the dreamy birdsong of dawn,

aren’t even the quiet crowing of

the train then in the distance.

This is a different poem.

This is the poem of 7 a.m.

And the scent of grass tipped with

dew is here in my cup of green tea.