[good morning, day]

When the alarm sounds, I am absent. 

Sun tugs at the eastern window with 

the urgency of a three-year-old. Curtains 

ripple with passion for dawn. The porch 

door yearns for a hand to push it open, 

wishes to unhinge and flap down 

the sidewalk to see where we go when we 

are gone. My shoulder leans toward presence, 

flexes tendons in the duvet dimension. 

My elbow migrates from under the sheet, 

pulls a forearm behind it. Morning devices 

gurgle and hiss. Wrist conjures a handful 

of wriggling fingers from the under-cover 

dark. They shimmy into light, sense possibilities. 

Aromas of the brown elixir of life arrive 

in a wave of persuasion. Fingers twitch, 

desire to hold a warm mug. A ringtone sings

Beethoven’s Song of Joy from the kitchen.

It’s time to rise.