My eyes are just pulling themselves open,
and adjusting to the light
that was not there when I went to sleep.
So I throw my legs over the side of the bed,
and drag myself to the kitchen for coffee.
And everything is dead quite,
it's a sureal silence.
I can see the sun
try and break above the trees,
but it seems to be
having a hard time this morning,
the clouds are forcing it to stay hidden:
and there's nothing I can do.
I step onto my front porch,
and the moisture from the dew
trickles down my throat,
and teases my lungs.
I start thinking, this is beauty.
The mist off the grass,
the still life of the trees,
the sun off the lake.
I guess this is why I wake up every morning.