I busy myself with monotonous repetition of brushing my teeth
turning on the dishwasher, setting my alarm
closing my eyes
night after night after night.
I do it with obedience, with faith, with fear.
I can see, behind my eyelids,
the morning light in my window is sharp-edged, clean.
Something small and silent,
persistent, colorful that
crept under my door as I slept;
I push back the covers.
My cat, joyous,
pushes her nose into mine. She tells me
the day is new.
This day is new.
My feet brush the chilly floor.
The harsh bathroom light
hits me in the face;
opens my eyes.
I leave the dishes in the dishwasher
I leave last night’s crumbs on the counter
I rip up my to-do list.
I float outside, smile at the people walking by
with their dogs, their masks, their coffee cups.
My feet are bare
my skin is cool
the morning light, clean.
silky and rough
a whisper, a refrain
I bend into the air now.
the morning light,
lays a palm on my cheek
touching me like a lifelong friend.