5:56 am

5:56 am
is soft with sleepy eyes,
geometric through the screen on my open window,
familiar as a lover whose resting form wraps around mine:
I am embraced by Morning who apologizes for waking up the Sadness.

"But look," she whispers "see how beautiful I am?"
and yes, my tree and roof and telephone pole and the hum of cars and busses and airplanes paired with the music of crows and birds and the scampering squirrel and a cool breeze and the blue sky--Seattle at 5:56 am--yes,
so beautiful that I feel warm again. A comfortable heat. Peace.
Her loveliness spreads throughout my body, melting all the icy Sads that build up in my soul.



5:57 am
the moment is gone.
I am cold,
out of bed,
shuffling to the kitchen,
thinking of everything I should do, should not do, should have done, should not have done.

tea
incense
candles
Imogen Heap's "The Fire"
crunches
hot showers

writing
sunshine

daily efforts to combat the depressive chill.

I am grieving the loss of 5:56 am--its healing tenderness and natural heat--
but comfort is found in the knowledge that such a fire still exists, and I will stumble across it again.