Mornings
Donna Pucciani
 
Lucky to remain in bed,
still able to turn over,
or to stand and walk
through sunny motes
to a kitchen for coffee
and the warm hands
of oranges in a sun-coddled
bowl of ripened fruit.
 
The clock chimes
whatever time I want it to be,
the blessings of an elder’s
breath, with footsteps slow
as snowfall, or leaves adrift
in the wind, or the slippered
wisps of daffodils in spring,
whispered butterflies
among the gold-spotted ivy
clinging to a stone wall.
 
The stars keep their cosmic
passage, planets align in their
mysterious predictable orbits,
and in every puddle a spot
of sunlight rides inside out
on the iridescent water.