Elizabeth Dingmann Schneider
One Sunrise
After Jaan Kaplinski
The sun rises
over sailboats
in an urban lake
and in the orange
streaks
words
in a language
I haven’t
learned yet
and buried
Spanish vocabulary
forgotten greetings
in Luganda
and the only
American
Sign Language
I still remember:
“lover”
Holy Days
of Obligation
and purgatory
rosaries novenas like
a magic spell
recite these
words
nine days
in a row
and Saint Jude
will intercede
on your behalf
each day the swell
of smoked eggplant
and garlic when
walking past
the Moroccan
restaurant
on Gloucester Road
a slow
summer dinner
with friends
around a long
table in a community
garden beside
a green
Victorian
with purple trim
braised rabbit
handmade pasta
with fresh pesto
I didn’t
fall in
love with
the chef
until I saw him
again seven
months later
the downbeat
at the beginning
of “And Your
Bird Can Sing”
the harmonies
I learned
while
my brother
played his guitar
the clear
awareness
that this moment
will be
a beloved
memory
like the moment
when you know
that this
is the most
beautiful
sunrise
you have
ever seen