The early dawn light,
Too strong and eager to ignore
Even under the cover of sleep
That calls to me like a languid lover
Not ready to release me
From my place by their side,
Breaks apart the restless peace
Of a night I hardly marked
As I tumble from my bed
In an admission of defeat
And slowly begin a sour morning
I had hoped would instead be sweet.

I bask in the empty cool air
That moves around my apartment,
Sealed against the sounds and smells
Of the world I live beside,
And listen to the hum and gurgle
Of my motivation brewing beside me,
Aching for a single morning
That does not feel
Like sandpaper on my skin.

I stumble from cupboard to pot,
Preparing my too-hot brew
For consumption in what feels like hours
Before I find myself outside,
Sitting stooped on sun-warmed concrete
As I think of perfect mornings past,
Where the sun warmed me gently,
Soothing sleep-stiffened muscles
As my coffee slowly warmed and woke
Me from the inside out.
Moments perfect in their poeticism
That have me looking for another
So I can capture it for myself,
To relive as often as I need.

This morning is not perfect, though.
My coffee stays too warm,
Scalding my lips and tongue
With every testing sip,
Jolting me awake with pain
And rueful self-deprecation
For burning myself once again.
The sun barely touched
The concrete beneath me,
So instead it steals the warmth
I had remaining from my sleep
As the blazing harsh sun
Threatens to burn feet
Seeking a more gentle warmth.

I sit for a few moments longer,
Seeking the redemption
A crystalline moment of perfection
Can offer to my too-early morning,
But the shift and sway
Of my still sleep-addled body
Splashes and then spills my coffee,
Leaving me alone on the porch
As the sun and my embarrassment
Fight over which warms me most.

I linger, unwilling to admit defeat,
As the humidity rises
Like the song of cicadas in the evening
And my misty brow proceeds
From damp to wet to dripping
As the sun slinks behind clouds
And then appears again
Like a child playing peekaboo
Long after their playmate
Tired of the game.

Grey and white and gold and blue mix
Up a panoply of morning moods
As the sky threatens the world below
With a familiar Wisconsin morning
And I bask in this singular moment
Of complete imperfection
And find comfort in the patterns
That mark my daily life.