In this morning

this cold morning

the sky touched with the pink the color of rose petals,

of Magnolia blossoms just beginning

I wonder how long it will be

until the sun is awake before quarter till seven

the sky aglow with the sure quiet joy

of awakening.

Because until then

I will wonder how I could possibly have dragged myself out of bed

with time enough to go for a walk

before work,

even on a Saturday

those many months ago,

or so my journal says.

Because right now,

I can’t even imagine getting out of bed

at all

it is so cold and cave-like.

And so I sit here

and write a poem

instead.

And I think maybe this is a kind of walk,

too. Or maybe

I am fooling myself,

again.