This the morning has the texture of plastic
In a world of hues, of longevity, of a breath
A corrugation, a tilt to a side, a new sound
Of a world upside down, a feel of thinginess.
Shapes are chairs in their silence of sitting,
A sound of looking, a skin feel of winter air
A palm occupying wind with water in throat
A form in formlessness, a door shutting out
Winter, a butterfly failing to land on flower.
Morning is rain in its falling softly into light.
It is rain mired in the half light of open sky,
Plants in earth pots dreaming spring leaves
On branches scraping the blue off a new sky.