I’ll miss the mornings most.


Glimpses of a sleepy 6:30 sun

Ribbon the clouds –

slice my window into foggy satin strips,

wake me slowly,

run fabric

over my

eyelids, opening.


Quiet grey of my kitchen –

a whisking stillness,


holding furniture in place.


My canvas bag drapes over

the shoulder of my table chair,

exactly where I placed it

the night before.


I breathe,

boil my kettle for tea,

the familiarity tastes

like earl grey candles

and pancakes.