Island Morning

Island Morning

All morning the surf
breaks on Burnt Head
giving up her secrets.
She throws them on the rocks,
one word at a time:
whispers, cries,
a nursery rhyme,
the sound of a man's voice.

Eggs roll in boiling water.
I watch the clock.
A voice in my head
from childhood speaks,
"only three minutes."
The toast is down.
butter and marmalade
sit on a cream colored plate.
I place the eggs
in a small white bowl,
carry them to the table;
take my knife and break
the egg in two,
turn it yolk side up,
pinch on grains of salt
and pepper, swallow
the history of my mornings.

The cries of an animal
rise from the beach.
Someone must love
it enough to search for it.
Leaves are turning upward,
the sky white with rain,
too cold for a stranger to find me,
too far for a friend to walk
on unknown ground.

Gladys L. Henderson
Nesconset, New York
Mercy Corps.