Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Morning


Morning


Why do we bother
with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,

then night
with his notorious perfumes,
his many-pointed stars?

This is the best—
throwing off the light covers,
feet on the cold floor,
and buzzing around the house
on espresso—

maybe a splash of water on the face,
a palmful of vitamins—
but mostly buzzing around the house
on espresso,

dictionary and atlas open on the rug,
the typewriter waiting for the key
of the head,
a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—
trees fifty, a hundred years old
out there,
heavy clouds on the way
and the lawn steaming like a horse
in the early morning.


Billy Collins

Posted over on Poetry Foundation

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