We are what we repeatedly do. <br />—Aristotle <br /> <br />You know how it is waking <br />from a dream certain you can fly <br />and that someone, long gone, returned <br /> <br />and you are filled with longing, <br />for a brief moment, to drive off <br />the road and feel nothing <br /> <br />or to see the loved one and feel <br />everything. Perhaps one morning, <br />taking brush to hair you'll wonder <br /> <br />how much of your life you've spent <br />at this task or signing your name <br />or rising in fog in near darkness <br /> <br />to ready for work. Day begins <br />with other people's needs first <br />and your thoughts disperse like breath. <br /> <br />In the in-between hour, the solitary hour, <br />before day begins all the world <br />gradually reappears car by car. <br /> <br /> <br />Anonymous submission.<br /><br />Deborah Ager<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-6/
