Morning with Bud in Petosky

The warmth of the bed bates the cusp 

of an open-eyed freshness. 

Pale double-peonies, lilac, the light 

I can feel through the lids, lemon 

furniture polish and cedar—here’s 

how I know where I am. 

I get up. The hushed promise of rice cereal 

slips in a bowl and bobs with the blueberries, 

heavy, plump, plopped one by one. 

A draft by my chair brings the wind-whipped 

lake shifting nearer—a salt-crusted bagel 

and cream cheese chaffs, dries the palm 

and the roof of my mouth like freshwater 

mussels do feet. Cranberry and orange juice 

gulp into a mottled blue glass to the rim, 

oh, brief zip of the hummingbird, sip 

tilt, dip our prisms in the light. 

This afternoon, I’ll pick moss 

from between the warm bricks 

off the path to the shore and the swing 

of the tide will tug his frog-kite over the lake, 

but this morning, Bud teaches me 

scratching thin stems on the leaves 

of effusive ink peonies, kitchen-table 

morning glories. Mimi chides, her music 

trembling from the piano. Now, the light pours in full— 

I watch the yolk rise from the wide table 

of water where there’s always an extra leaf for me, 

where I can be anything, even an engineer.