Morning dresses slowly
Which lights up the sky
Wrapping a carmine scarf around the neck of dawn
The oaks shrug off the light and shrink in under their blankets
For one last dream of walking.
The river takes all the paleness spilling over the world,
Spreads it across her dark skin.

“Where are going in such a rush?” She asks, not unkindly.
I have no answer,
except my eyes are wet.
For all my hurrying
I am no further ahead, and I have left so many…
mornings…
behind.