Morning.

Lately, I've been setting my alarm to get up early (by my standards), even though I don't absolutely have to. Then, I start accomplishing things. As it turns out, my apartment gets really lovely sunlight in the morning, and it feels good to tell myself I'm taking care of business while the rest of the world sleeps (mostly, I blog, and buzz around the house on espresso). But, in that spirit, I offer a Morning poem. I suggest reading it...in the morning.

Morning, by Billy Collins.

Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night, with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best--
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house on espresso--

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins--
but mostly buzzing around the house on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows--
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.