sometimes it is hard to write from the flat places . . .
this braided morning of songbirds & coffee
light aligned with contentedness oaked & amber-mine
no lingering dream of surrendered cotton smoothness
no peaked & inescapable yearning
merely a leaning into a shadowed new morning
sure in the knowing
sure of the curve of the flat places
sure in the damp-dove-calling of these minutes
shining . .