29 June 2004

Morning Road

Winter still, the light comes long
after I rise
above sleeping streets, stoplights
blinking yellow, yellow,
yellow at the corner.

Quick mix muffins in the oven,
radio humming quiet news, and I
under skylight in the shower,
soaking in the early
dark, late stars.

Half-past five I’m on my stoop,
watching you drive the empty
street, ease into park before me.
I greet you with muffins, mountain
dew, music.

You, in red car and ironed shirt,
smile hello, too early
for words. On the highway,
the horizon is violet, flecked
with stars like first freckles

in summer. Now they fade,
soft with shadow, fields
emerge around us, morning geese
rise to flight, now black
against the rising sun. We drive

east. Together, the sun
our guide, and still
between us,

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