It All Comes Together
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
The odds are forever even.
The percolator has mixed together.
a thousand mornings
yet it arrives in normal time,
as one brew.
Outside, twiggy beds creak in the treetops.
leafy blankets unroll.
The dawn gathers enough weight,
to fluff up pillows of sunlight.
We find ourselves on the verge,
of all previous awakenings,
swinging one tentative leg,
to touch a floor
that rises up to meet us.
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