Poem for 6 am, at 6:30

We decide again to wake up early.

We want to spend the first hour

of our days intentionally, toward goals,

with a pen. I hear you awake, writing.

I choose to stay in bed, for the second

morning in a row. First,

I was exhausted. Then,

I was listening to birdsong

and your sweet scratches

in the other room,

your yawns.

Making

this poem,

letting

the rest

rest.

Glitter Frost

After a fifty degree day in Michigan February,

(The groundhog said it must be spring.)

it dips back into the familiar freezing,

and all the leaves uncovered from snow

start the morning sparkling.

The Good, The Hard, The Daily

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.