i tried to peel a poem out of my skin this morning – a little effort, a little rusty on the wheels, but still rolling, somehow; slowly;; i purpose myself towards the day — the days seem to be rushing too quickly for any ray of sun to come perch itself on my shoulder – but still i fly towards the new day; towards the end of the month – towards the rage of summer about to crash into me // i still love my gentle feet for walking me forward, i still love my feeble eyes for working in the morning ; i still adore the patter of tiny feet on my ribcage as he curls his body into mine (a shelter, a house, a river)
morning break dawn rhythm. tumble house, new paint. warm bones of this house, warm bones it has. fumbled history and aching stories seeped into the walls. little baby gurgles dribble up the stairs. so the world is new. so the heart is round. so the river that carries me is married to more than just the sun. it follows from the moon, sometimes, too. and today now, all i know is morning break dawn rhythm.