Breath
The last whispery remains
of a dream fray into forgetfulness.
I get up and go downstairs
to quietly sit in a chair
beside the window and stare
into the outside dark. A few stars
hang suspended
in the silhouette of a tree.
Six o'clock.
The morning seems
to have been waiting for me
to bring breath to its silence
and movement to its still.
It is like a child eager to show off
its tricks - birds bursting out
of bushy hiding places,
a backyard revealed from beneath
a cloak of nightlong dark
and me from my own.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2025
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