The cricket my familiar

The ducks come and honk outside, when I open the blinds just before noon. 

I have been playing with an iPad app that turns photos 

into the watercolors, like this one, that I wish I had painted. 

Speaking of wishes, I was planning to give this blog a rest in 2015, 

but now find I just feel like keeping on keeping on.

Family

The cricket my familiar,
melodic as a little bird,
has flicked its way downstairs and past
the furnace, scattered toys, junk,
past freezer, to my study. Bright
as a watermelon seed it
hides forgotten and silent
until suddenly while I read
it strikes black sparks from its flint
so pure and unaccompanied
I seem to hear a molecule
of very earth voice its crystal
wet with first fire and pure as
first sleep, cuddled in the planet's
swing and making all familiar.

Robert Morgan

The Strange Attractor; new and selected poems, 
Louisiana State University Press, 2004, page 9.

From the back cover of the book: "Much of his work is a love song to the Appalachian Mountain terrain and a way of life all but gone: his father speaking in tongues; his mother canning peaches; carpentry, farming, the seasons in slow motion, family history , and wind-borne strains of music."
I read a recommendation about the work of Robert Morgan and it sounded like the kind of poetry I liked and it is!