The house that love built

By Amy Baranski

Yesterday morning I woke up early, still adjusting to the change in time zone, and in my restlessness, decided to go out and watch the sunrise. With me I carried my book of poetry and a camera. I walked alone as the rest of the house still slept, tucked under covers. 

I felt happy to be windblown with just my mind, although such joy is more satisfying when shared with someone.

Once to the beach, I took up residence under a tree in an empty lawn chair. To my left, a photographer adjusted his settings, and to my right a family snapped photos as their one-year old cried in terror at the approaching waves. The trill of the baby leapt up over low grumble of the wind and surf.

We, all strangers, waited together, eagerly looking out to the horizon. Beyond the breaks even, a paddle surfer steadily bobbed as he looked eastward. Behind us the moon clung to the pale remnants of night.

I opened my book and worked on memorizing the last stanza of The World by George Herbert. I work backwards in these matters. With such scenery it was hard to commit much to memory. Perhaps the poem ill fit the moment. I soldiered on.

The clouds glowed in a full spectrum palette. Then the sun, starting at first as a sliver, glinting above horizon, rose in her full fiery force.

 

Was this the stately house that love built?

An elderly woman saluted the sunrise, arching her body in half moon shape. The photographer, distracted by this most common celestial event, gazed up from his camera, and the baby under the weight of the changing of guards cried on and on.