Morning Promises
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Morning Promises
By Jane Tawel, July 28, 2024
*
Gorgeous delight,
this Morning, fresh and new.
I put up a good fight against Your hopeful face,
But why did I ever doubt You?
*
You have come, not on soft, pitter-patter feet
as once you did when youth was cleanly cleaved
along the lines of good and bad
along the fenceposts of win or fail
when all the dreams we ever had were moored
along the shores of youth’s grim holy grails.
No, your arrival seems to come without my choosing.
And I fight your crashing cymbals waking me from
restless, aching sleep.
The morning light begins to seep like opening wounds
and stirs the ancient fears that all must keep
as close as terminal denial could ever be.
*
And yet — perhaps to dream — ah, there’s the rub! —
to sleep is but to die a small, white-noise-ed death.
