The Dawning
A poem by Carol Barrett

The Dawning

Early morning, the air already bluing
in a crisp breeze, sprinklers agitate
for greener grass, offering puddles

to deer, to quail released from nest.
Already others have begun this new day,
neon pink signs posted at street corner:

estate sale opening at 7 AM, arrows
plotting the way to a single-wide trailer,
peeling paint on front steps, chairs

and dressers in the drive, holiday fare
and silk gladiolas spewing from drawers.
I decide to risk musty boxes of tea towels,

decline cutlery scratched to base metal.
Inside, I am stunned by drop-leaf tables,
armoires studded with kerosene lamps,

sea-green, crimson, beveled stems
glistening in remote window light.
Hundreds. She must have wanted certitude

of path, guided toward each dim horizon
by golden sentinels, these framed luminaries,
fresh wicks curled inside. I am drawn to two

tiny lamps, one doubling as pencil sharpener.
Former magistrate now cloaked in light,
she transfers this vanguard to lead me home.

About the Author:

Carol Barrett has published three volumes of poetry and one of creative nonfiction. She grew up in a family of ten, and has lived in nine states and in England. Carol has taught poetry for students ranging from kindergarten through doctoral candidates. She believes that poetry may be healing for both writer and reader. A former NEA Fellow in Poetry, she has enjoyed sending work not only to literary magazines, but to venues not known especially for poetry, including JAMA, The Climbing Art, The Bee Keeper’s Journal, and Oregon Birds.

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