Equinox

A short and sweet poem by Mark J. Mitchell pours out feelings of familiarity. It swells in my mind, allowing me to look out towards the horizon and reflect on how I spend my days, hours, minutes.

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Equinox

By Mark J. Mitchell

• • •

Nostalgia rains across split light.
Days drop to one side or the other
like rivers divided by a ridge.

Evening hovers beyond the gate.
It will finally arrive once
you’ve spent blinding hours looking west.

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Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War is published by Loose Leaves Publishing. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available. He lives with his wife, the activist Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco.

Photography by Farrah Emami.

Early Hours

Walking amidst the air held within the early hours, 
among the premature sunlight rising into the day’s fruition. 
This early morning wind reminds me of my youth—
walking upon red-gray gravel, 
towards the bright yellow bus, 
windows smudged with fingerprints and nose prints, 
with children pressing their cheeks agains the cool glass. 

The birds are chorusing today—
their song reminds me of the one once sung within the backyard of my parent’s home, 
where my brother and I would settle our backs on the trampoline, 
out of breath from trying to out-jump the other;
the same song sung when we’d lay opposites on the hammock, 
swung between two fully-matured aspens—
chatting about our future lives with sore-stomach laughter,  
as the warm wind enlivened us, 
the shade cooled us. 

These particular rays within the early hours are the same that shone through the french-door windows, 
onto me and my sister, within our shared bedroom—
with our silly dance routines
and polly-pocket ventures. 

The sky is the same shade of blue—
the one where my mother would extend her neck, 
and throw her head back, 
marveling on the way the clouds drifted upon their own, vast blue ocean. 

But the sun shines today, also. 
Within these hours, the clouds skirt across the sky, 
and move with this fresh, crisp air that I steal into my lungs. 
These trees with the fluttering leaves, this morning, 
reminds me of today, 
and will remind me of tomorrow, too.