Aubade
by Sara Backer
I grind all night, my teeth, my bones, my puffy joints.
I grind myself awake through a haunting
of scattered machinery. My cat, Zbigniew,
senses the albic light before dawn
and jumps on my stomach. Through windows,
oak leaves that were black in moonlight
now appear dark emerald. The white face
of a peony hints at turning pink.
I watch the fade of the horizon
from dark to pale blue, the thinning
of stars, and an opal glow
between low branches,
triggering questions from robins.
This is the hour the world gets a break
from humans. Late night and early morning people
equally unconscious before alarms go off.
This is the hour I cherish the silence of sky and road,
and my own insignificance. And
there—on the lawn—a sleek red fox!
__________
I Drive Away from Work
by Sara Backer
Deep grey is vertical:
phone poles, oak trunks, thick pines.
Pale grey is horizontal—
curdled sky, shadowy fields of snow.
Snowflakes meander in clear space.
No hurry.
I’m not driving home
a point: just driving,
cold and grateful
to have my brain here with me,
and the grey matter of the world
ignoring me.
Sara Backer (she/her) has lived in Costa Rica, Japan, and two coasts of the United States. When she's not reading poems, she is teaching composition, reducing her carbon footprint, and playing with her gray cats Zbigniew and Wislawa.