A broken tulip

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Between the thick haze of sleep
and the steeled mind attending to business
is no-man’s land, a time to transition.
Morning begins wet today
dripping, comforting, cold,
reminding one of all that is lost
(a long list) of faces no longer seen.

The wet dawn surprises itself
every day rising a little earlier
(industrious Northern sun)
the morning malleable in its existence
a border between what has been
and what is. So I transcribe

one long bird whistle
hurt behind eyelids
drops rapping little knuckles on our roof
tired eyes
drifting willow branches, whip-like
thickness in my forehead.

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