Here is morningtime!
Tho’ dark and windless, it seems
I find renewed peace!
The morning I think of giving up
Shades of moss green and orchid peaceably pull me back
As an elder, in Auto-Tune
Promising a child that dancing days lie ahead
An altogether different morning, now
A wholly-new and holy mind
It’s talkin’ to me,
the Galaxy. Suggesting
that I move beyond.
Surprised to see the a.m. sun
The door I’d forgotten I’d opened
To remind myself I’m alive
A part of this world
Apart from this world
And out of this world, too
Anyway, first, foremost
Tending to all the green
I thought to stop, I felt ashamed
For all I’m giv’n, undeserved
But, my friend told me the currency
Unending morning, I Am
Forever working out the pain
Unweaving the lies from the hours of you
The promise, I Am
As yet undelivered to the ether
Present and unstoppable now, you hearts
Wedded, I Am
To the heavens, to the Everywhere
Moving, pondering all of you ages, We
I don’t want to hear the morn’ coming in; stay at bay.
At my pace, I’ll share my fruit with the wild; bid good day.
When the sun seems warm enough, out I’ll go; come what may.
Truth is, creatures know I can’t resist them; so I stray.
Pancakes on a Sunday morning were never supposed to be so loud.
The only sounds I’d predicted were newspapers unfolding, rustling pages after an appropriate period of time.
Harp-laced sunshine musically poured from the orange juice pitcher to your glass, my son.
Cozy, fluffy, buttermilk breaths, exhaling at long last, I wanted for us.
But the week had gotten the better of me.
Instead you heard man’s demands and the echoes of entitled children.
Screeching chairs against cold floor tiles and anxiety-producing forced air overhead.
Waste and plastic and a bit of excess.
But there was the blessed color, wasn’t there?
Tell me you noticed, beautiful.
The smiles of the Sunday workers, employed by capitalism, but still genuine and holding their own.
The crowd beside us in Sunday best, good news and gospel aglow.
Brothers and sisters we are.
Take that from the morn, my child.
This lovely, winding, seasonal scene of our lives.
And the time we were given and allowed ourselves.
How many closets did we crawl into
How many midnights awakened
By an ever-fixed, screaming star
And I, another day older
No closer still, no more able
To take us away from the chaos
Carelessly strewn about the sky
We were forced to live under
But there we were
Closet door and mouths closed tight
Waiting for morning to come
And I, another day older