Read Poem: Up at 4, by Peter Barton

Up at 4

No, 4:30

Light trickles out of the woods

I dust off my brain

Pound a fist in my mitt

To catch the tinsel God throws me

I wiggle my toes

With shuddering, babyish delight

Take a long snootful

Of the pre-dawn wind

Reassure myself

That God is still pitching

S’OK

My mitt is well-oiled

And I weep a little with joy

To reaffirm that the universe

Still revolves around me

And my fuzzy brain

And my aching heart

And in time

In MY time

The birds begin

To sing just for me

Light eases and oozes

Up through the woods

And I know there’s a bear there

Who’ll miss me terribly

When I’m gone

Which could be today

So I hug my pillow

And wait for the sun

To crawl up our hill

And make the trees shudder

Bring a tear to my eye

Pull back the covers

Comb my eyebrows

And just breathe

My 80-year-old

Joys…