Morning shows the day its way

Sometimes in the morning

I go back to sleep

trying hard to keep

my dreams from dispersing

or consorting with reality,

which in turn might whisper

to sounds of morning unfolding

The grandfather clock keeps

tick talking back and forth

tea kettles puff and pant

as milk boils over agitated

and hard-boiled eggs feel

the soft touch of butter

on toast. The coffee is cold

when afternoon rushes in

sharp on the hour at noon

as briskly as morning recedes

on the coattails of yesterday

Life begins and ends as it

always has, like never before

 

Shyam Bhatya

Poetry was never my forte, but like you, I have to get it out sometimes. Feel free to critique or comment below.

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