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A poem by Charles Halsted of Davis.

Waking Rituals 



At first light, the cars below begin to move.  

I hear the distant moan of the early dawn freight;  

closer in, the gentle coos of the mourning dove. 



Still in cocoon, I roll towards

her sleep-shrouded nakedness,

spoon my bony angles around soft curves. 



I’m awake and alive, while with 

rhythmic rise and fall of her rib cage

she sleeps on warm and still. 



Birds start to call, some shrill, some peeps. 

Low washboard stutters of magpies 

announce the gathering light of the sun. 



Gray turns to gold across fields of wheat,

distant oaks from dark to brilliant greens. 

Sunlight bursts through close-in leaves.  



I splash cold water on my face, 

get the tea water up to a boil. 

Scalding heat, oxygen, tiny leaves 



burst magical aromas and tastes 

all the way from Ceylon to my brain.

My senses now at their height, 



I move into my day.



--Charles Halsted



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