In the Whit’ning of Day
My toes sink into the black
spongy moist humus
unleashing earth's breath,
as the Greenwood lays
morning's first mist upon my canoe
and face. We become as one
in the whit'ning of day.
I paddle slow and let the
pink lily pads kiss my canoe.
On the wing a redwing blackbird
sings 'con-quer-ee, con-quer-ee'
in ascending liquid tone.
'Con-quer-ee, con-quer-ee'
in the whit'ning of day.
The open lake shimmers
like an awaiting dance floor.
It shimmers like polished granite.
And as a wall-flower hugs
its wall, so now I hug
the woodland's edge
in the whit'ning of day.
Fearful in the shade, I ask—
'What must die? What must live?'
The redwing with shoulders
Of scarlet edged in yellow sings
'con-quer-ee, con-quer-ee.'
And I peer beneath the granite slab
in the whit'ning of the day.
