Spring

This is not my window.  But it would be nice.

Early,
Dawn grey sky in the East.
The mourning dove on her post
Placidly greets the day.
The fox trots the old rail line,
Unhurried, headed home.
He stops
Twitching an ear
At the slowly waking world.
The path, worn by people and pets
To the unused track,
Leads also to his burrow.

The floor is cold.
The coffee warm.
Lists begin in my head.
I feel the day
Weighted with its potential.
Busyness crowding out the stillness.
The quiet grows loud
As thoughts roar through my head.
Much I should do,
Some I could do,
Plenty I will do.
Clutter betraying the sweet stillness.

Soon the day will break
All over me
Like a salty wave crowding the beach.
But this day
He has made it,
Already I forget
To give it back.
The patter of little feet
Signal the gleeful awakening
Of noise and duty.
Like trusting Spring flowers out my window
I stretch toward the Son for life today.