A Morning In May

If I were to tell you Of a Saturday in May, Of lying in bed as the sun came up And brightened the room; If I were to tell you Of the fluttering curtains, Of the cool air flooding in And how I curled up beneath the blankets to stay warm; Of the birds, some with sweet songs, others harsh, Of the thump of the newspaper tossed against the door And the sound of a train approaching a distant crossing; Of my thoughts in that sleepy haze, Of my confidence and anticipation As I compiled a to-do list in my mind; If I were to tell you Of the faded and frayed blue jeans, Of the torn, paint-splotched sweatshirt And the battered tennis shoes I put on; Of standing before the mirror, And thinking my clothes had seen better days, Knowing those days had not been better than this; Of my breakfast Of shredded wheat and toast with strawberry preserves, And how much better it tasted than it did the day before; If I were to tell you Of the coffee that morning, Of its savory zing, And how I warmed my hands on the mug; Of going outside, Of wondering about the fellow who wrote of the day And rejoicing and being glad in it; If I were to tell you Of that fellow waking on a morning like this, Of his feelings of awe and inspiration And how they moved him to write about the day; If I were to tell you, Would you remember waking up On such a morning in May?