Morning

There’s something about morning, the way it creeps in, then settles here in its incarnation as day. It’s not clear why it comes; it’s not clear what it needs. It’s just clear that it comes every day on a schedule. Morning is its own kind of gift – not from God, not from a god. Just a gift. I long for it; I open my eyes hoping for it, knowing it will come as it…
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Morning (A Prose Poem)

Morning rides in on the wings of evening. Night time we know as empty space. There’s a comfortable repetition to that, but something seems amiss when storms roll in unannounced. We’ve seen this before, but every year it’s a surprise. “Look at that cloud on the horizon,” we exclaim, “Look at that!” I know that there are those who attribute the change of seasons to God; I know that there are those who attribute the…
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