Mornings to me

Morning to me arrives like a man who forgot his hat and came back quietly for it

Soft-footed—half-awake across the kitchen floor
like God still believes in us a little

My coffee breathes first

Outside sprinklers turn slowly through somebody else’s green lawn

And somewhere a woman opens a window
without knowing she just saved herself for another day

I love mornings

And their refusal to explain anything

I stand here barefoot
hair uncombed holding this warm cup against my chest

And for one holy second
I can hear my own soul breathing inside this quiet house

That’s morning

Not sunrise
Not birdsong
Not poetry

Just the beautiful human ache
of beginning again