Spring Morning

THIS valley holds the morning in a cup.
Excess of sunlight brims the mountains up,
And rolls white radiance upon the floor
Between the hills. At every farmer’s door
The morning screams and stamps a silver hoof.
Slate fires burn on every farmer’s roof,
And sunlight crows the morning like a cock,
And mountains ring the morning like a clock.
Come slug-a-bed, you hear the sunlight rapping
Upon dark shutters. Get you from your napping.
Come walk with me to wade in white sunrise,
And feel the morning tugging at your thighs
And watch the mountain shed its winter skin.
Come out, come out, and drink the morning in!