While river whispers
at his window, carrying night slowly
downstream, he rises, like a pre-dawn lark.
Climbing out of dreams that eddy
and swirl headlong, toward the main current.
He pulls embers forward from beneath
the banked fire. The hearth jumps alive
with light. Warming to this day, his haikus drip
from fingertips to notebook.
While the morning star, tinted orange,
rises, a finger of dawn sweeps pink until
it touches the Red Wing’s throat.
Turmeric toast and tea drift
their potent scent, as he sits at the bench,
raising hands to touch black and white
keys, arpeggios infuse the room, a medley
of My Favorite Things, Greensleeves.
His tones, these notes, a tongue
of the morning bell, fill the hollow
between day and night.