Morning slips in liquid quick as a bird through a window and cuts sweet dreams thin as air. Morning shuffles in slowly, as slowly as the growing of a bush, and shoves sleep into the other room. The trees shake off the night sea quickly around the house. It recedes like a far planet like the waning of the moon in a month of glances. I dash to meet the shadow wave, wash and shave, and try to do my best— but still I’m clumsy compared to the swallow gliding from the eaves or to the geranium turned translucent to the light.
23 June 1977