The Day Has Come

In 1984 my fiancé wrote in her journal that "the trees are wearing taffeta tonight". A great line, one I found very moving. 30 years later I was finally able to build a poem around it.

Thank you Laurita for the great line.

               Day Has Come

          As I lie here in my bed
          this is how I like it best.
         Sheet and blanket warm,
         dry and soft to the touch,
            breathing the cool air
  that tumbles down the mountain,
      passing through ponderosa,
          bringing a scent so fine,
          that of my beloved pine.

            As the night wears on
             a tempo slowly starts,
      like a barn dance warming up.
     Just beyond my right shoulder,
                 away to the east,
             and nearing midnight,
        the quarter moon shows up
              and leans on a ridge,
              shedding some light
            on the hoedown below.
                Across Mile Valley
                the Big Dipper lays 
            across Moose Mountain.
               In the heavens above
                   it’s back to back,
                 a star promenade.
              The nightly tempest
               strikes up the band,
                 and you can hear
                   a big rush of air-
                  the wind section
                     is warming up.
            The dancers are all here;
                    the Douglas Fir,
           the juniper and the cedar,
                  bending backward
               and dipping forward in
               a great unison of limbs.
         The aspen's skirts are flashing
           like sequins in the moonlight.
                    The wind rushes 
               down through them all,
          sashaying across the ridges.
                Yes indeed, the trees
          are wearing taffeta tonight.

                As dawn approaches
                the wind quietly stills.
            Some trees stand straight,
                     some are bent.
          Some are leaning on a friend
             they have known for ages.
                        All are glad
               they don’t have far to go
                            to rest.
 
             Next comes a small graying
  ushered in with the muted dawn chorus
        of sparrows, flycatchers and finch
                and chickadees skipping
                    along the branches.
                How are these branches
                        now a still life?
                  Wasn’t this same tree
                   bucking an hour ago?
                   From out the window
                        above my head
               the pink will begin to spread.
             and the light will pour onto me.
                       Then I will know
                   that the night is done
                     and day has come.

               Weston and Laurie Parker
                            1984-2016

There’s a lot of square dancing going on here.