I wake to ebony sky
and rub my eyes
as I descend the stairs
to coffee air
and newborn poems
still half asleep in my heart
but awakening
just now

as I light a candle
against the dark
and pour my first coffee
from the timer-made pot
I start to dream

it is a new kind of magic
this waking-dreaming
a hovering with possibility
that straddles

this before-morning time
is filled with shadows
and reflections
of times before
and times to come
woven with the present
in a newfound fabric
not yet taken off the bolt
before this moment

but as I spot it on the shelf
of this newly-born day
I reach for it
and unwind it a bit
to see what I can craft
I feel its texture
and appreciate its pattern
and it is at once
as it is new

and as I hold the bolt in my arms
I write the day awake