Morning is my second favorite time of day.
The first is twilight.
But that’s another poem.
Morning, a moment past dawn, if I slept well,
the possibilities line up before me.
Do this or that,
which first, which now, which last?
I brew coffee and sit where the view
Is wide and nothing yet has gone wrong.
Check emails, texts then headlines
for something new and shocking.
Sometimes in the quiet morning light
I think of him who loved me, feel
joy for that abundance where
now famine reins.
