the lazy sun struggled awake this morning
grateful for the merest moments before it burned orange
and streaked the sky with its anger
I am tired, weakened by the night
with drowsy limbs and swollen feet
the steps in the morning dark in arthritic fashion
warmth in my hand and ache in my heart
the stillness itself is a reflecting pool without sight
without the rippled rings of conscience
the aromatic wisps tickle my beard and remind of
simple times in one room studios before the dusk of youth
tomorrow the stretch will come, path worn into the floor
and mayhap morning’s messenger will wait a beat longer
before resuming it’s pathos upon the world
yet, resting in the off-minute before
the cracks in the vault of night not quite evident
I am not struggling with life’s leaden weight
I hold my stolen breathing close, and watch it come
with expectant wonder
