Melancholy, a worker

A beautiful day wants beautiful things done.
I am alone by the window.
This morning, after the sun had gone up,
made an ugly face. I saw in the mirror
a horrible image, turned and recognized it
as mirage. Sometimes in March (also
sometimes in other months) fear crawls
from the ground. Don’t be afraid. My love,
don’t be afraid.
If the demon at the breakfast table
is my reflection, don’t turn the light
toward my face. My selves at odds
with the day and it’s beauty, striving…
What did you hear from the trees?
In the early morning birds sing uncertainly
of days to come which in their unselfconscious beauty
ask for a different rhythm than my slave- heart.