Magic in the mornings

March 3, 2017

My house is magic in the mornings. /

Somehow, while I was sleeping, the air has transformed. /

It's cleaner, sharper, new-day air, now. /

My mom is on the couch, reading a book and taking large gulps of too-hot tea. /

Or perhaps she's in the kitchen, testing out a new Pinterest breakfast idea. /

My dad is sipping on his coffee, sitting at the kitchen table /

Playing a song that he'd written late last night when he couldn't sleep. /

Everything is slow, as the day stretches out its arms and /

scratches it's belly. /

I feel so at peace. So comforted. So content. /

I'm cold. I'd gotten out of bed, my warm and cozy haven, /

And entered the serene dewy chill hesitantly. /

It's brisk, but I don't care. /

I cup my fingers around a mug of hot tea and sit /

Cross-legged on the couch, watching my mom read, or listening to my dad play. /

Sometimes I just watch a gentle breeze that drags its fingers passively through the grass out the window. /

My house is magic in the mornings. /

The light is soft and blue, /

A preamble to a sixteen hour novella /

Of possibilities. /

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