Mornings are a sacred time
For me.
It's the time I'm most vulnerable
Raw and rare
It’s the time I seek God
And speak to Him face-to-face.
It's the time when I hold His hand
And He leads me back
To the Garden
Free to be seen.

A day escaped,
released from the sticky womb of night
held firm in the arms of midwife morning
listen to its infant cries,
the wails of a newborn child unfed
demanding of your bed and sleepy scant attention,
it matters not that you turn your back and try to block your ears
to tears of open-window traffic rage
and screaming gulls that dance on bins with shoes of lead
invade your head and work themselves within
to violate your peace with a surgeons skill,
phone alarm vibrating shrill and shaking
leaking decibels that penetrate each waking fibre of your skin
you know you must begin, attend that fractious babe
fill its hungry mouth to stop the bawling
lured as ever by the bathroom light
Thursday screams, and you her faithful moth come crawling

To have forgotten
a thousand mornings of blaring sun

here, with April on the horizon
and a flit of transitional snow

my heart pulsing in my hands
my soul pulsing in my heart

here, with a new day on the horizon
here, with new places to go

to have remembered
a thousand evenings, a thousand endings

Waving sails in red and white
catch the breeze and early light,
shiny rich men's toys of the ocean
dance in lazy undular motion

After the rain
during the silence that follows
in that cool calm moment
when sodden the earth retreats
and all is still around your feet
where there is no time,
just space
a thinking place to listen
the cicadas of memory start to sing

9-2-24   9:07pm

why are mornings
the worst part of the day

when your mind begins to trace
the quiet echoes of their absence

even at night
before drifting to sleep
while lying awake
with your thoughts going
a mile a minute


it's because the crickets remind me
of you
the still air
your books
your scent
your smile
your laugh
your lips

sliding, slid into darkness
cracks of light run hither
smiles and sweetness turn bitter
winter blues, anguish and Solitaire
morning... dragging me by my scruff of neck
warm human breathe in frosty
morning air

Walk then,
touch the silent acres
dew pond wet
and shining grass unbroken,
a day still new
wrapped in promise newly woken