The morning we woke up in the porch, protected
simply by a net of interwoven brittle holes,
sleep was jostled by the early bird chipping away,
echoing. Tight-chested, it was difficult to simply turn
over; although, glasses were within an arm’s reach,
we did not need them to witness mist skating across
the water, and the wisps were curling up as toes attached to
bent knees beneath a blanket of late September.
We lied there silently, listening to the simplicity
of splashes and air bubbling up to the surface. As the blanket pulled
closer to our heads, yours resting slightly upon my chest and
nestled under my chin, everything was fine. Our arms, crossed,
secured confidence as impending autumn’s intimidation eased.
Time did not stop; yet the clicking
hands of the clock were enunciated with productive
wood pecking, proving life is as inconsistent as the illusion of
time spent. How fast the time goes by with comfortable simplicity.
It’s time to wake up. It’s time to get up.
Yet, now, all I have is small bedroom with closeted windows,
and a warm cup of coffee.