Morning
Why do we bother with the rest of the day,
the swale of the afternoon,
the sudden dip into evening,
the 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,
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.
by Billy Collins
from Sailing Alone Around the Room
Random House, 2001
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