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 change of seasons to a god. I don’t know about any of that. What I do know is that when the seasons change I am full of wonder.

All my life I have been intrigued by the transitional seasons – fall and spring. I’m an impatient person and I suppose that this love of transition reflects that; I seem to want everything to be in motion at the same time that I resist motion. When there’s too much going on around me I often hold my hands up and say, “Stop, stop. I get it.” I say this because even the smallest bit of motion overwhelms me, makes me unable to understand what’s going on around me.

It hasn’t always been like this; once upon a time I managed classrooms with the greatest of ease. I even enjoyed the way some students teased and refused to sit quietly. They were the ones I loved most because I related to them. My body and my psyche refuse to take a backseat. I am big; I make noise. I am not proud of that, but I wish I was. “Fake it ‘til you make it” is my motto.

4 thoughts on “Morning (A Prose Poem)
  1. To my readers: this is my first prose poem ever. Feel free to give me your honest feedback.

  2. Michelle, I miss you. I”m just around the corner. Let me know when I can visit and your four legged fur friends. nance

  3. Hi Nance. You can visit anytime you like. Just give a call.

  4. You are always welcome, Nance. Just let me know when you want to come and I will make a point of being here.

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