Morning is warm.
It is quiet.
It is the comfort of rest and embrace,
the prospect of beginnings,
and relief behind the lilac bush.
Morning is crisp.
It is still.
It is the welcoming of sun
and light into fog and darkness,
spilling through valleys, warming the fox’s den.
Morning is mine.
It is virgin.
It is the freedom to be,
to have choice and time before being
tangled in [fowl-driven] misdirection.
Morning is vibrant.
It is full.
It is as a tree can hewn to home,
a seed sprouted to radish,
or a stone laid to hearth.
A morning is possibility.