What’s your favorite time of day?
The top of our heads
will warm enough to remind us
that the sun, high in the sky,
staring down at the world
as a stern father stares down
at his pesky child, is there,
above us, no longer caressing
our cheeks, reaching softly
from a perch in the eastern sky.
The morning is over.
The last swallow of coffee
abandoned in the well of my mug
has gone cold. Outside, the gentle hush
that greeted me, that thickened the air
as I, in barefeet, stepped across
the driveway to claim the newspaper
rolled, resting beneath the mailbox
like a dog’s lost bone, that silence crept back
into the trees, between the thick branches,
behind the wrinkled shingles of bark.
Now is a time for shoes and thinking,
of scraping crumbs off breakfast plates,
of closing window shades, and ignoring
the colorful birds darting about
the backyard feeder as quickly as sparks.