Not exactly a sure thing.
It’s just morning.
Shade goes up when you pull the string.

See the naked maple tree, the hellebore
in the yard, exactly as before.
It’s just morning.

World news on TV.
Not exactly as you’d fashion it to be.
Just morning.

Just this, this morning, this
only one of itself
that will ever exist.

2 responses »

    • Such a small nothing of a poem, isn’t it. The poems of that winter were written as a habit, first thing every morning, for the space of one large mug of hot water with lemon and honey…..written without judgement and put aside for awhile. Then I was influenced by much reading and liking of William Stafford. When I went back to that sheaf of poems there was much to reject but also quite a few little gems that took only minor tweaking. It was amazing to discover how I don’t always know what I saw and thought until I see what I’ve said…

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