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mornings
the fresh darkness
at my kitchen table
my toes are cold
this Sunday morning
hot tea in hand
I slip into selfishness
again to remember
my forgetfulness
early fall chill
just a few walkers
in the dark morning
aspiring every morning
reflecting every evening
there are crystals
covering the landscape
this March morning
enjoying the company
of poetry
in these early hours
before work
sipping tea
morning again
alarms calling
my wife to wake
I am in love
with the cold wind
and dark early walks
bright and early
digging through
a forest of thoughts
my insomnia is deep
I forget reality as soon as I see it
