I like this morning.
It seemingly proves
that I am still here.
Outside my window,
some fifty feet down
our sloping front yard,
is a tree that has been
snapped in half by a storm.
It has no branches and no leaves,
standing naked, producing no defense.
This tree is beautiful in all the
morning light I have ever seen it,
as it has seen them with me.
We, the tree and I, intertwined
within the fellowship of time
are reminded of a man from the
past who needs constant evidence
of existence; who am I to know
I am me with here and now
if only for liking one morning.