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

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