Mornings

Mornings

The mornings do not save me.
You are there,
filling my senses.
I see you in the fog burning off the lake.
I hear you in the screech of the eagle,
diving, hunting for its breakfast.
I smell you in the wood smoke of the stove,
the biting sulfur from the match that starts it all.
I taste you in the bitter strong coffee,
boiled too long, drunk without sugar.
I feel you in the wind that bites like winter,
that sinks down the neck of my coat, giving me chills.
The mornings do not save me.
You are there,
filling my senses,
and yet you are gone.

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