It was the morning of the Puerh & the peeled drape,
the roar of a lawnmower & the light,
a loud shine. A made bed and a gold mine.
It was the morning of the Language & the loud dog,
the bark of a neighbor & the ticket-man,
an expensive call. A made bed and a black shawl.
The sun always comes up around here and
tends to the roughness of the night with that gentle
only morning offers. The new day never shows up without its
medicine of tender mercy and a.m. slang.
Fight to be grateful always, it's the posture the morning begs of us.
RW
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