Inside the veins there are navies setting forth,
Tiny explosions at the waterlines,
And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood.

It is the morning. The country has slept the whole
           winter.
Window seats are covered with fur skins, the yard is
            full.
Of stiff dogs, and hands that clumsily hold heavy
            books.

Now we wake, and rise from bed, and eat
            breakfast!—
Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood,
Mist, and masts rising, the knocks of wooden tackle in
            the sunlight.

Now we sing, and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor.
Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn;
We know that our master has left us for the day.

Copyright Credit: Robert Bly, “Waking From Sleep” from Silence in the Snowy Fields. Copyright © 1962 by Robert Bly. Used with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.