Some Mornings

Some mornings the grocery list, pile of dishes, unmade bed, and empty backpacks. Some mornings, the rush, the shoe search. And socks. How did you lose your socks? Some mornings, the bus is coming so brush your teeth. The bus is coming. The hairbrush is where? Some mornings, here, your backpack, your lunch sack, your gym shoes at the bottom. The bus is coming, so run. Some mornings just run. Some mornings the ruckus tree edge, overlay of highway a mile away. Some mornings puddles and worms. Some mornings the eye tracking its steps. Some mornings, under the bones of hyacinth bloom, the clasped hands of new leaf overnight greening to the lightest green before a color switches its name white. Some mornings the white bills of water birds. The chores simply done. Lake wind-roiled, fast paced clouds, a warm mug. Some mornings, the broad-winged heron open to land, its sails steady, its feet ready. Some mornings downpour and dark, the clock not near its call, a question of the last time you lounged in bed past daybreak, the half-read book, the snoring dog. How much you can see with your eyes closed some mornings.

Zone 3, Volume 35, Spring 2020