When this morning’s sun woke me too soon,
I lay for a long time watching the rays
that slipped through the cracks in my partially drawn blinds
dance to draw new pictures on my bedroom wall,
and trace the large yellow flowers on my comforter
as if it were the artist creating the design.
I stretch, letting the weight of the blankets embrace me
in the post-dawn silence, thinking that if I delay my rising,
the passage of time will somehow be slowed, at least a little.
This is the first morning of my forty-seventh year
creeping silently upon me, trying to come unnoticed,
like a secret made heavy by the burden of years,
and whispered in some abandoned place.