Gracious morning spills its quiet
I awake with no depression
No hiding in sleep
The day is a surprise
No need to make things better
No hyperbole or fancy metaphor
All my work leaves me this day
Years of paying and saving
This house is mine
I like my neighborhood
The trees, the yards
Today is sweet
I inherited some furniture
My mother’s lamps and chairs
I keep all my shades up
Light streams in
I love these oak floors
Gratitude on a quiet morning
Most of my poetry is written at night
I tend to be a night person
Lately, I’ve turned that around
I’m lucky, I can write on a computer
I can take my laptop in different rooms
Each space like a universe of memory
Variants of light like a painter
Time of day with its own color
Poetry is the subjective borrower
Where we write is a profound choice
Sun on houseplants
Trees swaying in the wind
Inward outward connection
We have different rooms inside
A home opens the soul
Romance without a home implodes
My father loved the grandfather clock
Chimes of morning dressed in peace
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Truly, A morning is a bliss for you after a hectic schedule with poetry.