Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Morning
Summer aubade, the sun beginning to crown
from the ocean, spreading a muted ray
of light across the bay. The only sound ‒
a trochaic call of the salt marsh cuckoo.
It is said whatever you’re doing then,
you’ll do it again and again. He calls,
come back, come back, come back to bed.
It was the same yesterday.
Ah, sweetness, how can it be the same again?
The grandfather clock chimes the half hour
slicing the solitude in the air,
reminding her of day’s deeds to be done:
dog to walk, breakfast to make, poems to write,
watch the sun pass overhead.