FIRST MORNING CALL

First morning call
in late September
after being curled up
on my thick blanket
in a night set of dreams
that is remembered
in the familiar sound
of tiny grackles at the fountain
by flowing cold waters
and sunflower feeder
outside the narrow backyard
near the white frosty mountain
waking my motionless lips
for a bard's prayer met
in my quiet sanctuary
by strands of documented words
somewhere between genesis
to revelations's Apocalypse
hearing the peal of bells
in a submission for the day
watching the last summer roses
and pink and white peonies
on the landscaped fence
disclose the metamorphosis
of the skies rainbow
along my ride to the Bay
in the fresh autumn air
with my finger on a crawler,
a hot latte and a French croissant
attached to my bicycle basket
a notebook of poems
and letter from my uncle and aunt
excited about my new collection
"Everything, Everywhere,"
stopping by the airy docks
to speak with a lobster fisherman
who returns from Gloucester
and Cape Ann with a fresh catch
for the restaurant in view
Ramanujan hands me a coupon
for a free Thursday lunch,
the golf grass is still newly cut
with a few mallards on the course
as my mind 's eye is writing
from an imaginary source,
the wind rips the high tide
on the back of a river run
checking on my kayak
by the Oak tree acorns
encountering the Fall's nature
from its branches and twigs
in a changing wooded debris
by my practice in a marathon
to raise money for a charity
near the club of my last read
with my small band
at a dizzy sax recital gig
someone has put up my initials
unauthorized by me,
someone on the ocean waves
puts down his anchor and oars
out on the silver blue seas
for the last summer time
on an island's liquid mirror
watching the nets and nests
of nature's surprising vitality
will be aware of a poet's words
now in a sun rising frontier
my syllables speak
for my age and century
over the birdsong words.