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 has every day. There’s something
about morning. It kisses nighttime, collects its dew,
then rests here like an old friend settling in for a
long chat. Some days I reject it and return to my
slumber, but most days I embrace it and know it’s
beauty as day. There’s something about morning.