A night of dreaming has washed the mind of its fretting from the day before. Now, in the bold bright light of morning, thoughts rise slowly, coaxed by the poised pen. The body is soft and cool, the belly still keeping the egg of sleep warm within it, unready yet to spin to life. So this song of morning is no bellowed boast ringing over treetops and town, but a half-whispered fragment of melody left over from a dream, drawn from an ancient age, accompanying a private smile. That dream has faded, but some sweetness lingers: a gift for those I'll meet on my way today. ___ *February 2015*