morning again

The promise of a new day
begins to pall towards midafternoon
each day, if nothing destroys it
before, but

we don't know that yet. You're up
again early. Let's
get half-ready and go
out to the garden chair,

as cold as it is out there
with your hair still wet,

and the coffee you've made.
Let's begin the dreams that never come
anymore at night, the kind that tell what today
could become. In light like this, pale,
angled low, it's like

the bright-eyed sun doesn't even know
yet what could happen, or
what it got up for. As if any surface
of earth at all, with anyone in it
at all could shine below.

Let's forget the dreams that actually came,
to tell you each night will be like
each day that has come before.

What is it to wake to days like those?
Today doesn't feel like it will be
one. There's something different
about the sun, and maybe

we'll go back inside, and put on
different clothes.