Where Morning Begins

Out there, where morning begins,
Will you find my thoughts
Walking hand in hand
With the beginning of all mornings.
But all you will see
is my own hands
Folded into each other.

Seeping through the shadowland

The soft sigh of the willows
Seep through the shadowland
Where weeping ferrymen
Steer their canoes through morning dew.
Wild ducks, with sea salted wings,
Migrate through dawn
Shedding golden leaves like syrup fingers
Attaching their palms to the ground.
Cuts in the night sky deepen and
Bleed honey onto the horizon
Herding nightbirds and dreaming children
Back home.

The coming of Light

Gray and mute.
There is no cadence in the wind,
As if numbed by the winter forest.
There is a stench of sorrow
Shrouding all safe exits.
Even the tide is holding its breath.
Then, a blossoming of light,
Soft violet and blush,
Splitting the ocean in a glittering trail
Of rose gold and silver.
The echoing cry of seabirds,
And feathers shivering
In the eddies of the wind.

A Sense of Expectation

The morning air is laced with coriander.
Thick white fog creeps up my bare arms,
The wet cold licks make me shiver
Despite the spring heat.
Crows whine on the rooftops,
Shedding black feathers as they scavenge
For breakfast.
There is a sense of expectation in the air,
As if the fog has veiled something,
A truth that is waiting to show itself
As soon as the remains of winter lift.

Indian Morning

There are white cottony gossamer threads
whirling in the sunny wind and
Orange-tipped butterflies sailing backwards
Against the dawn.
There is a blue coffee cup on a fence pole and
Banana trees trembling
under the weight of grey and white storks
Come to study the genteel movement
Of the murky river.
There are screeching parakeets and
Blue dragonflies mating on
A quiet gust.
There is a cookie jar with a half closed lid and
Thoughts swirling behind freshly kohled eyes.

Lonely morning

She opened her eyes
And smiled.
She was alone, and there
Was a coffee cup waiting, and
No one to tell her what to do.