Morning Mist Rising

In the first light,
in the first slippery light 
we are born again, 
and with the same struggle 
every time. Thrown
from the hammock of sleep 
onto hard ground
we lie there half amphibious, 
watching our dreams move 
helplessly away like fading 
lantern fish.
There is nothing to do 
but to tie ourselves 
into our shoes,
for they remember the way 
from bed to table, 
from table to door.
Our hands slip 
into our pockets 
where it is still dark, 
still warm.
When they emerge
we cover them with gloves, 
for blood runs sluggishly 
through the terminal 
of tracks at our wrists,
on its way to the far flung counties 
of the heart.


Waking, by Linda Pastan