Monday, February 23, 2015

The Rising Son

Hiding somewhere between the opening of his bedroom door
At six forty five in the morning and 
The opening of his eyes and mouth
Almost simultaneously
Just short of six forty six in the morning
Is a transition
Of the sort that
Most folks never get to see
From a reality shrouded in mystery to
One about which there is little that is mysterious
Unless you count his consumption of carbs
A transition
That is no less momentous
Than Mr/ Roger's shoe change
No more apparent
Than  the annual life cycle of your average pine tree and
No easier to capture
Than the moment that toast goes from just right to charcoal briquette and
On most mornings I pay as much attention to it as I do to
The dust that builds up on the bottom lip of the picture frames around the house but
Even I dust and
Every so often
I am aware of the opportunity I have
To witness a sunrise
Every single day of the year

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