I sit down to write a poem

and find nothing waiting

to be voiced. There is

the liquid purple sunrise

that lingers for me to wake

now that it is fall. And there are

the two sleeping babies

I have just left, one chattering

into the bars of her crib.

There is the tight flutter

in my chest I can’t name.

But all these things are

already being appreciated.

There is a couple waiting

at the crosswalk, who turn

one after the other to point

at the brilliance of the new day.

The faces of the skyscrapers

are glowing gold, for everyone,

even the ones who might prefer to be

heading the other way, home.

We all know the pattern.