I sit still in the glider rocker, mug perched on the narrow
ledge of the sill. Dawn comes first to the boarded-up
house to the east, then to my neighbors, sweet
people with a slum lord. The house I grew up in is
just across the falls from here. We went
to Niagara once and my father said ours
was bigger, just less famous. I did not believe
him then, when far away always meant better.
As a child I’d watch the sky to the south
darken from my bedroom window, pine tree silhouettes black
against the midnight blue. Now I wonder about the names
of the trees in front of my house, as morning settles
in their bare branches. An invasive species
probably planted by the Victorians who built my clapboard house
across from their church 120 years ago. In their chapel
by miracles of time, grace, and ecclesial cooperation
I preach and preside on Sundays, talk to the children
and help them blow out the candles when we’re done.
Later I’ll walk down to the falls and watch the water churn
and thunder under the bridge, mist and spray rising to kiss my cheeks.
So much richness in things I never thought I’d want.
The sky alight now in winter gray, I pour more coffee
and remember the words my cup runneth over. I stop
at the brim of my mug. It is enough. It is good.