Somehow the old saying is true–when something’s not there you begin to desire it. When it’s morning I don’t often appreciate the sun… and then it’s gone and I’m writing poems about it. I always thought I was one of those people who could live in Antarctica–spend months without daylight and be fine. But there’s just something about watching the sun rise that I love… provided I don’t have to get up too early to watch it (Go Fall! Go Winter!)
Buttered Toast Sun.
6:35, the tabletop rings.
Tired hands swat the clock
Like my mom used to pat my head.
Eyes open just a crack
The cracked window opens back–
opens the day with a buttered toast sun.
It’s the shy morning smile of the new dawn sky–
pink blush horizons and an embarrassed chill in the air…
That’s what I love about a buttered toast sun.
Rays melt over the mountain tops, slide down into the valley
and into my open heart.
Heave hup! Out of bed, trip stumble stop my way into the bathroom for the daily gleaming foaming grin.
Put away the toothbrush and rub my eyes–go back to the window to watch the sun rise.
Buttered slab sun drips into the soon toasty day,
runs all over my skin and into my soul.
Stamp one, two–into boots and off to the kitchen. Lots to do today, breakfast first.
I don’t often eat in the morning, but when I do–
it’s buttered toast I like the most.
~ ~ ~
Thanks for reading,