Sunday Morning

It happens on these
mornings, unexpected
unexplained…the coffee
waits to be drunk, the
Times waits to be read
…I stop for a lull, a minute
of quiet more quiet than
normal, more less than
less, I reflect on a thought
an image a diorama
unfolding with shivers
of light with sounds and
senses, I watch an internal
sequence…an
independently aware
movie; you…the ground
beneath us, the air around
us, the moment between
us and I am there breathing
you…just being and living
and knowing without
knowing until the moment
the minute cracks and it
is the paper and it is the
coffee and it is Sunday
morning again.

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