The Trade

I’ve given away my mornings

handing delicate pinks and grays

to coarseness of

daily to-do.

A familiar place:

the nook under stairs

leading to somewhere

by nightfall

where Worry and Plan link elbows

to spin and collapse at my feet.

I’ve given away my mornings

trading her bright orange peeling

–with its sweet sticky juice–

for plastic crinkling

of someone else’s

not-good-for-me packaging

sitting on a shelf for so long

because

the preservatives of my mind

allow it.

I’ve given away my mornings

sending her off into the distance

of Tomorrow,

brain hushes heart and

shoos it

with both busy hands

back into my body

where it beats its chest

in vain.

I’ve given away

wind-chime twinkling

of morning

and replaced her with

a newly owned cacophony

of Day.

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