FIRST THINGS

by John Herlihy

First kiss, first rain,
First sight of the sea,
What else awaits
To thrill our unfolding fates.
No ceiling, no floor,
No stone walls, no back door.
All become a tired refrain
That wanted just once to be.

Trust the first time
To be unique of its kind.
There will be time enough to come
To repeat what has already begun,
What at first seemed sublime
Becomes dulled by routine rhyme.
What was never before,
Now everywhere galore.

Trust the magic of beginnings,
It breaks open the heart;
Makes every day a first day,
Every moment a new start:
A point of no return.
You can’t go back’
There is no need,
To revisit what went before.

Trust the miracle of origins,
Creating memories not mine
The wonder of first man,
The bliss of first born
The brilliance of the first sunrise
The sounding of the first horn
All evocative of universal truth
That fill my heart as mysteries forsooth.

The first color was the dark ebony of outer space
Followed by the brilliance of God’s white light.
Color then blended into multiple hues,
The first rainbow dressed itself in colored dews,
The first squirrel gathered its first nut,
Awaiting the first winter in its first icy hut,
When the shadow tail sat in snow to nibble its treasure,
Like a penitent sinner on his knees in a pew.

Trust the unfolding of Mother Nature’s delight;
Every first occurrence an expression of might.
The sound of first thunder struck fear and awe.
Into the first ears still stuffed with straw.
Gathering sound from edges unknown,
Crashing through avenues of cloud fully blown,
The sounds suddenly emerge like an animal roar,
Rumbles shake earth while thru the heavens they soar.

Let us make everything its own first time,
As though it has never happened before.
Moonlight, for example, on an empty shore,
No one was there to see this luminous veil before,
Shining pale light down onto the ocean floor.
The dung beetle rolling its treasure uphill,
Hoping his dinner would not unravel and spill.
The first spider spinning a web with incredible skill.
Fog creeping stealthily across the mountain lake,
Sending an eerie silence that echoes in its wake.

First colors bleed of their own accord,
Gathered in a basket making a colorful hoard.
Each color bespeaks of a particular nature,
Distinguishing the recipient with its distinct feature.
The crimson head of the woodpecker,
The red breast of the robin,
The golden yellow of daffodil,
The splash of purple sage,
Infinite shades of green and grey,
That mark the foliage under nature’s sway.
The dark blue ink of the deep well,
All run riot their secrets to tell.
Every color casts its own mysterious spell.

The white alabaster of pearl
The ghostly white of bone
The polished white of ivory
The velvety white of marble stone
The pure white of snow
The soft white of smoke
All contribute to the cornucopia of color
Each one brother or sister to another.

Who can forget the first white,
That illuminated the backcloth of the first night.
Dove, candle, snow, light,
All defy the darkness of the night;
Jewels of light in their own right,
That linger in the memory as images of sight.
Blues, pinks and purples have their say,
Nothing compares to the white of the milky way.

First word, first step,
First vow, first curse,
First love, first death,
First disappointment, first success.
Beginnings signify awakening,
With their unique bud and bloom.
They act like drops blissfully hanging on their own.
If they had odor, they would smell like perfume.

First things, once captured,
Slip through our fingers,
Like water, like dust, like time.
The fragrance however lingers
Until it withers and disappears.
It is our responsibility
To give every day its due,
Always to oneself be true ,
To recapture first things anew.