Oatmeal, my oatmeal


Part 48 of the 66-part series called "moon photos"

I sing to thee, breakfast of champions,
staver of hunger all morning long. I sing
of hot cereal in bowls, steam rising
like opportunity into the cool morning.
I sing of spoons dipped, lifted, placed
gently in mouths, dipped again. Of grain
waving somewhere, the susurration of it
like the ocean over the cliff’s edge,
long ago. The sun rising over it
thinking of something it can’t place.
Maybe the dream it had last night.
Maybe something it was supposed to do today,
after breakfast, something important.
It’s not sure, but it’s not worried.
As long as it keeps shining, the oats,
the spoons, the mouths, all of it,
will keep singing something, over and over.