Morning Silver

 

Eight-thirty AM: I go for a walk

and stumble: unexpected shimmer underfoot,

sidewalks threaded with silver like strands

of tinsel from unseasonable Christmas trees.

By ten AM they’ll be gone, dulled with dust,

tracked over with everyday dirt.

 

I’m up at first light in the cool of the morning,

witness to a minor miracle: score one for morning.

 

Silver over spruce needles and loose dirt.

Silver drying to specks of sticky dust.

Silver dripping up skinny baby trees—

but no slugs in sight, left stranded

to die in sunlight. Just shine at my feet,

mirror-trails of light adorning the sidewalk.

 

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