This is my Sabbath day of serenity. Here is the perfect reflection for the day. This was written on the first morning we awoke in Ukraine over a decade ago, newcomers to Soviet life. It reveals a shadow of what I left behind and a glimmer of what stretched before me. Its message of serenity still speaks to me.
Theodore Steele, 1891
Quiet Morning
Puzzle pieces of morning light
gleam through thin kitchen curtains.
Outside plump ruby grapes dangle
from twisted vines, and
vibrant grape leaves
hang motionless
in the still of first light.
My soul is as peaceful
as the Ukrainian morning.
I read and drink coffee
in the humble kitchen of
stout-hearty Soviet friends.
Their rickety kitchen table jiggles as I journal.
A half-eaten grape cluster
leans against a chunk of
yesterday’s crusty brown bread.
My heart sings and swells for simplicity,
for quiet. Distant jagged patterns and
neon colors of home emerge:
grasping for Donna Karan,
clawing for Vera Wang,
force feeding the fat,
rescuing the apathetic,
competing, running in the
left lane winded, jaded,
gathering with both fists full.
This home-scene memory
rushes before my eyes vivid,
but I can’t hear it.
The morning is too quiet.
