Morning Song

The air is still -
Through the windows'
Residual grime I see
White plumes
Rise, 
Someone somewhere
Has lit a fire.

The sky is pale,
Uncoloured, too bright.
And the Spring sun
Waits for the air
To warm.
My window is open -
Coolness

Circulates
Mingling with the
Gentle steam
From my tea
Which I sup
Slurpingly

Glad of its wetness,
Its warmth,
Its ability
To make my limbs
Move more freely.
Today, perhaps,

I will prove
I am me.  Maybe
Understand
My life, put my
Thoughts into
Neat boxes

Well-described
And true.
Today I will try
To be new.
Try not to think
About you.

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