Mornings are life at its best; you sniff (if you don’t rush, if you savor)
with new growth--and you catch a raucous
opera in the trees, the first sip of French Roast,
all distracting you from the future
(you forget there’s even such a place)
and your desire for an easier--for an eternal--
life and yet you’re quite aware
that somewhere a clock is ticking
with possibility.
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