Morning

There is a time in the morning, when the mountains are still pink,

and the sky is clear and white, and everything is cold,

and sounds wait patiently in line, before kneeling at my ear,

and animals are sleepy, and I am tired and look out the window,

when the day still seems hopeful.

Before hours collapse possibilities,

like summer’s optimism fading,

and the brutal fate of unproductivity lumbers forth,

and scarcity swells like a vein on a forehead,

there is protection in these fleeting minutes

from the path clearing before me,

and seeing the end of my life

at the dinner table that night

when you say

to me you’re the sun

just before it sets

casting infinite possibilities

the best part of every day.