by diane hilderbrand and jack keller
a distant night bird mocks the sun.
i wake as i have always done,
to freshly scented sycamore
and cold bare feet on hardwood floor.
my steaming coffee warms ny face
i’m diappointed in the taste.
but there’s a peace the early brings
the morning world of growing things.
i feel the moments hurry on
it was today, it’s died away,
and now it is forever gone.
and i will drink my coffee slow
and i will watch my shadow grow
and disappear in firelight
and sleep alone again tonight.