What is it about morning? Is it the shadows? Is it the light. Is it the still and rested heart? Softer beginnings on the heels of dreams. The quietness of sloth. The residue of visions clings to all surfaces that shine as if shown to us by something outside of us. These illuminations, soon lost in creeping shadows, give us time; the gift of faceless clocks.
What is it about morning? Is it a quality of time? Is it the startling glow of resurrection juxtaposed with the recent night? Nothing moves like morning, but morning moves in a subtle arc like that first turning of a Ferris wheel.
The gravity of morning grants me the awareness of weight and substance. It shatters the suspension of disbelief. Morning recasts the spell of life on the ghost body, woken by the rhythm of the carousel, and wondering beyond wonder what is this life? This body? This strange yet familiar room, whose horses we once rode? What calliope, what carnival is this?
Morning. Touchstone, purify my bones for living. Sanctify my skin. Proof of my living with sound and smells and long blue shadows. I drown in the seas of mornings.