Poem

(after “Let Evening Come” by Jane Kenyon)

Let the owl
be satisfied at last and return
to his snowy bower.

Let the orange rim of the sun
grab hold of the horizon
and hoist itself
into a new day.

Let the eastern faces of the trees
warm up with light.
The chickadee emerge.
The snow throw off its blue cloak.
Let morning come.

To the mice huddled in the nest:
his searchlight eyes are closing,
his killing talons harmless now
clasped around a branch.

To the water caught in ice:
remember your sweet song of motion,
your lithe and liquid body?
Let the melting begin.

To the bulb aching in the ground:
Now, now is the time for rising.
Now, now is the time to flower.

Listen, can you hear it, too?
God is calling.
Let morning come.
Julie Cadwallader-Staub lives in South Burlington, Vt.