The way a morning comes upon you, discovering you in sleep, slicing golden on the lid, opening the Ziploc of your dream, is not how the poets would have you think. Not even this one. It is not a stealing softly, nor is it an infusion of warmth.
After a night spent dwelling in (not on, because you, ever resourceful, armed with paintbrushes, have made them more than habitable) your doubts, morning arrives like a sneezing fit with no tissue in sight, like a lost dog limping you can’t let inside, like the last bus on the worst corner.
You will stave it off with promises to be productive, with hints of increased understanding and self-worth, with brute force of blankets yanked up over your head. You will stave it off for minutes, even an hour.
But the morning is patient, a new nun with a scrubbed rosary, knowing that you may not be a believer but in the morning you’ll pray anyway. We all do.
— Halsted M. Bernard