The windows are not open.
It is intrusive to let morning into the still room,
too soon to let the day begin.
I am reluctant to disturb the pleasant act
of looking through glass to the bourgeoning day.
It was late last night when I went to bed,
tentacles of sleep still wind around my brain,
not fully awake, not ready to engage morning.
Such perfection in the play of early summer
light filtered through leaves of the walnut tree.
Later, the sun will be stronger, more strident,
this shimmering light will fade into memory.
Time to push back the gauzy curtains,
raise the window let morning begin.
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