I wake later now, the big dog insistent at the covers. I write less. Longhand aches. I remember Naomi explaining how, like her teacher, she stole the early morning from her hectic day, wrote into it the wonder of a windowsill in first light. When my back windows looked out on a fence and a landscaped bit of green I woke with her injunction and wrote the sun up.
This morning’s oak and pine, dogwood and sycamore are gray and black and branchy against the hillside just showing splashes of daffodils and green dogwood blossoms while here and there a few brown leaves still cling like memories and downed timber is visible in the unleafed woods lying like corpses in last year's duff. In such natural disorder, I sleep late until what sun there is has cleared the eastern gully and I’ve killed some working hours with sleep. But I'll do better. I await an early sunrise and an early me-rise and time to think line by line.
This morning’s oak and pine, dogwood and sycamore are gray and black and branchy against the hillside just showing splashes of daffodils and green dogwood blossoms while here and there a few brown leaves still cling like memories and downed timber is visible in the unleafed woods lying like corpses in last year's duff. In such natural disorder, I sleep late until what sun there is has cleared the eastern gully and I’ve killed some working hours with sleep. But I'll do better. I await an early sunrise and an early me-rise and time to think line by line.
