Each morning a tiny piece of sky peeks through the bedroom
window
to give me the morning weather report….
always blue, gray or white
never canary yellow, French lavender or even warm chocolate.
I sink a bit lower into my bed to consider what my blue day
will look like--
walking to the river for coffee
deliberating between a latte or macchiato
as though this decision would shift the latest world crisis,
opening my book which needs to be read by Thursday
while apologizing to the river that I cannot look at her
until I’ve reached page 137.
But how can I resist the sun slipping glances at me across
the water
so apologizing to page 56 for my rude and sudden departure
I stretch just a fraction more comfortably into my chair
and let myself look out upon the flowing waters of world as
they pass beneath the bridge
on their way to water the fields of mangoes
and fill the well of the young widow and her child
before spreading a cold soft path for the boy dreaming of
becoming a champion skier.
I can’t contain myself any longer
I lift my macchiato cup to toast the world
and the sky who kept such tight lips earlier this morning
about the marvels I would witness today
even before my coffee cup was drained.
