A Morning Song

A bit of tenderness is already here,

Pink curtains and a glass on the windowsill.

A snip of sunlight

In a place where only tiredness was before.

There is an ache,

In the heart and the hips,

Something that can’t be undone

Or even ameliorated

In this morning.

But the unevenness of the edge on the turquoise bowl

And a plain guitar,

They are also here,

With some kind of simplicity,

Some kind of openness,

Some kind of possibility,

And with some kind of quiet

The whole thing sings.