In the early hours of the morning,
when the sun is freshly risen to
greet the night in a blue-grey limbo that may
last 'til noon,
the verdant life that abounds in the backyard looks
it's greenest.
It's as if the sheer intensity of color gives it life.
It's 7:30 and the softly blushing
Morning Glories have yet
to open, to greet
the returning sun with a heraldic procession
led by their trumpeting forms.
The fence looks darkly stained,
like teak, though of much less
value.
One plank, however,
stands out from the rest: a
sore thumb, if you will.
It's warm, blond wood mocks the table
at which I've eaten since I was a child.
The plank is two years old and
still not dark, like the others.
I wonder why.
They all get the same amount of
rain, wind, and sun;
but I digress. Puddles, not
unlike the ones I splashed in when
I was younger, and still do,
cover what of the dun colored sand that
currently doesn't support any life.
Little domestic aspects
of life permeate my senses, interrupting
my precious moment of clarity and
observances: the ticking of the rooster clock,
the smell of grape juice, the whirring
of the refrigerator. One thing, however,
is made clear:
every dawn is a treasure;
that no matter what happens during the day,
it will bring you something new.