Ready to Sleep
At the crack of first morning, the sun bleeds through
holes in blinds, like a laser, hits my eyes.
Wincing, I rise, smooth down hair, straighten covers,
stumble on wilted feet.
I am small; the world is looming.
I am old; the day is young.
The morning is yellow, and my hair is gray.
The world is green and blushing pink Spring.
I spill the coffee, pooling liquid mud on vinyl.
I miss the bacon, the red days. I’d make hot oatmeal,
or cream of wheat, when it was still dark outside.
They’d grab their lunches and be off. I didn’t know
that morning would be so short.
It was so short, that morning.
How could night have come so quickly? I was barely awake,
just opening my eyes to the sun.
I hear them now, their footsteps like the rain.
I see them down the hall, in their beds, in the yard,
petals unfurling to the light.
I hug the covers a bit tighter, I walk a bit slower,
I remember the past instead of dream what is to come—
When did thoughts go backward? When does time shift?
They are running, chasing their own futures,
dancing under the clouds. I can hear them
when I open the windows and listen to the wind.
And I… I no longer need coffee.
I no longer need the sun.
I wrap myself under the covers;
I am ready to sleep,