Some Days

Some Days I Like to Arise


Before the motor of the world
has been turned on to slowly

crank out another day, in what
the French call The Blue Hour.

The hour on the cusp of
and just past the brink of.

An hour whose existence requires
its own name. I like to sit

at my kitchen counter in my good robe
and fuzzy slippers, staring out

at the back yard, letting my coffee
nudge me awake. This morning

is so still the giant fan leaves
of the palm trees dare not move.

The surface of the swimming pool
is an unspoiled mirror, reflecting

but a chink of the universe above,
but a chink of the infinite possibilities

exposed by the optimistic sun.