morning
in the cool night-fresh air
is a time of being
when words
not yet fully formed
alight on my heart
they perch there
soaking in the birdsong and newly risen sun
before coming fully into being
and in this
nascent state
is when words are most pure
often
they come
alone
just a
whisper
of an idea
or in a
gentle cluster
two or three
in the
beginnings
of a thought
and the swirl
to meet another
word or two
before
joining
into a poem
it is in
this early morning
state of being
that
poetry
awakens
