Frost

How can one keep from joyfulness
or a whispered thanks to God?
I didn’t exactly order it
though it was ladled last night
in my falling-in to sleep
and cradled in my dreams.
But it came unbidden to me;
hoar frost, a mist and sunlight
have dressed this mid-November morning.
and I need not ask for more.
From my window of white diamonds
a heron stalks the river
gazes at the bridge,
is standing, statuesque, in meditation.
I watch too, in a similarity of stillness
but who will weaken first?
with a call to breakfast or to prayer?



Cait O’Connor