When morning comes

I whisper of lands

that in my heart ~

are like returning birds

they come again,

so easily.

The morning

tells me

to shake the duvet off

and press my feet

to the waiting floor.

Downstairs
I listen to Karl Jenkins on
the radio

marvelling at such artistry

then
drink
espresso

while the rain makes
her home on the windows.

Soon, again,
night will come
chasing morning away
as she brings
her pointed
shining stars