Sometimes

the morning

runs naked
through the cool

of the darkened

hours
scrubbing

the night’s ink

away
in a laced

neon tide.
Sometimes

the morning is afraid
of the dark
it sleeps with all the clouds

set alight,

or burned on the edge,
electric pink

and purple

and
orange,
the sky

pulled high

over its nose.
Sometimes it sounds like

the morning

is hiding
behind the horizon

or the roof line,

watching to see
if I’m still awake

or sound asleep.
But I am here,

playing catch

with my dreams.
Sometimes it smells like

the morning, now dressed in
early clothes, stringing

on my yard’s grass

dewy pearls,
little stars

of water.
And I’ll step onto

a whole galaxy

when I walk out
in my pajama pants.
Sometimes the morning’s

shadow is visible late
into the afternoon

until the early

hours of tomorrow.
Some

call its shadow “the night”…
But you and I know

better than that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo: Elif TIG ~