Love Letter to Mornings
Magic is in our grasp, but
Sometimes you donít reach for it.
Itís easier to sleep in, easier
To stay in pajamas and fuzzy socks,
Easier to stay in your cozy cave and
Wait for the day to approach you,
Its slanting light, its graduating noises.
But then you walk the beach in the morning,
The fog filling your lungs, chilling
The musky scent of bedtime,
Itís morning, a time of expiration
For smelling like bed sheets and linen,
And the ocean says good morning,
Pulls back her glassy, practiced facade
To show you her double-pebbled undercoat,
Because you are here to get to know her,
And she learns to trust you immediately.
(So you think.)
Or you walk the forest in the morning,
There is no activity yet óno birds, no wildlife,
Unless you count the man across the field walking
His dog, but they donít even see you
Or see the forest, for that matter,
The frost on her green skirt
Animal tracks near the brook of icy water.
The sun is only in the tops of the trees.
Itís as if being quiet in the morning
Means extending sleep,
When the opposite is true. Perhaps
Itís the mornings when the world
Hasnít started shouting yet óthe phone,
The internet, the newspaper, the TVó
That you truly wake up.