morning court

There's an art to waking mindfully,
respecting the quiet dark,
kissing good morning to the dawn
to herald the morning lark.


You have learned to question nothing
of your lonely nighttime wanderings
through the deepest caverns of your mind,
your innocent, soft ponderings.

But you brush your sleeping visage,
love your moments all alone
wherein you've built your house for fantasies
the likes of which you call your home.


Magic on your morning breath
and dirt upon your feet
caught from running through your
private world of wonder, wisdom, heat.


You recount it over coffee -
voice waking up in time
as the mazes of your inner peace
begin to dull their shine.


Breaking bread in shadows
thrown by sunshine in the east
gives poetic referendums
to the scattered early feast.


Breath is shallow as you sit there
perturbed by the rising day,
and the beauty of your nighttime world
slips silently away


until your dreams are wispy threads of thought,
hazy, silent, black and white,
gone like the fragile feeling
of the middle of the night.