When the earliest light
touches my face,
I wake
to black pine branches against
the palest, palest grey-blue.
Morning has come
and I am called to rise and
find my way
in this always losing
and receiving world.
Morning Light
Tag: Morning
A Senior’s Spring
The insistent alarm
and furnace sounds ---
I open my eyes and,
out my window, see
young leaves, sun-touched,
sway, disturbed by a squirrel.
I stand hesitantly
and move stiffly
into another morning,
accepting the gift
of this time
and place.
Black winged and gold-tipped
butterflies, and I
feed from the lilacs’ fragrance
and mourn
in this secular wilderness
as I map out my day.
Winter, 7:00 a.m.
I almost wake as I lumber
lurching on sleep-stiff ankles
and return to my night-warmed bed.
In the east, out the window,
I watch the pine boughs shift
and sway and still and shift.
Resting on the next street’s roofs
a pale gold light bleeds upward
behind the narrowing pine,
at the window’s top,
the sky’s grey-white
hints at blue.
A Confusion of Branches
A confusion of branches with still leaves bright against the firs pretending to be black: morning out the bedroom window while in my warm bed. Lost - time past and unconsciousness in the cold rising required now with eyes opened: the day with its duties and small pleasures waits.
Before the Alarm
In the morning, I run words in my head,
To see if they fit together,
To see if they flow.
Sometimes I reach for my keyboard.
Learning Living 