In Conversation
Good morning day,
drifting in snowflakes,
your cold gray face freckled with birds,
the sunrays of your smile absent,
beaming elsewhere.
Good morning day,
lightly slipping in beneath the curtains,
rousing me slowly, pulling me from dreams,
drawing me to the window
to watch the snow float down.
I recognize yesterday
and tomorrow
in the steadfastness of the trees,
see the past heaped in white drifts on the ground,
feel the future on the wind,
taste the present in a sip of scalding tea,
hear the passing of the hour
in the tick of the clock,
see the light swell and illuminate every corner,
smell the time of day cooking on the stove,
an egg singing praises to the morning.
Wake up eyes.
See the light come creeping in
making friends with the shadows.
Watch the little bird with the red hood
eating the peanut butter suet
and the arms of the trees spreading themselves
across the gray horizon.
Wake up ears.
Hear the clock ticking off the minutes
and the rooster announcing its own presence.
Listen to the silence that lies beneath all sound
and the sounds that dip into the silence.
Wake up nose.
Revel in the scents of toast
and of bacon frying crisp in the pan.
Smell the gunmetal of new snow that drifts
down like feathers in the cold.
Wake up mouth.
Sing praises to the new day,
mimic the chickadee with a whistle,
bless the tea kettle and the breakfast plate.
Wake up fingers and toes.
Feel the silkiness of the sheets,
the chill of the floor and the warmth of fuzzy slippers.
Indulge in the softness of water.
Smooth the unruly hair and wipe the grit of sleep
from the eyes.
Wake up self.
Merge into the morning
watch the birds,
listen to the kettle,
taste an orange,
smell an egg frying.
Touch the day with gentle fingers.
Step softly.
