Some mornings, I like to live like a secret;
wake as quietly as I can, and slip out of bed without so much a wrinkle.
The early daylight, whether still blushing pink or smothered by a fog;
the birds’ important chatter; that comes and goes
mirroring the rhythm of cars up the street.
I take it all in, but do not want to touch it.
Even as I write this, the moment is halfway a memory.
I have not known what my life looks like from here,
but the closer I walk toward it, I catch a silhouette.
The corner of a white wall, a distant whistle, my shoes by the door.
I will wander and lounge and be messy in a place I’ve made a sanctuary.
I will still live like a ghost in the mornings;
walking, listening, pouring coffee to finish sometime by the afternoon, when I’ve had enough of watching the world and doing all I can to live in it.
