Québec
1 October 2002 (8:05 am) Astoria, Queens

y (ee) my Morning good.

the sun comes up slowly.  pauses.  she asks in a whisper if i’m ready for her.  she, my Morning, has a voice like an angel in a paper dress, sheets of patterned vellum made elegant by the divine.  she, mmm, is like a soothing doctor with a pleasant cool hand on my forehead; my tropical-like skin made nice and Morning.

“Yes.  I’m ready.”

she draws the curtain back.  sunlight in, hums and warms quiet.  birds twitter into my room through slight crack at the window bottom, land on the end of my bed and sing awake me.  eyes, mine, appear through the slightest fog as the feathered mingle with me on the shoulder exposed to Morning.  i smile and reach out a hand just from the other shoulder still buried deep in the futon snug.  my hand like a little-

yes, i hear the sing-song:

“chickadee, chickadee, chickadee-dee, chickadoo.”

-perch.  tickles friendly.  peck playfully at my hand landing, no pain, just familiar greeting Morning.

“chickadee-du, chickadee-dee-du.”

in return, i say,

“I chickadee-dee do.”

prance they up my arm and around my head, eyelids, brows, warbling like laughing.  and i promise: get out of bed soon for you me.

little groan from me, more like “auwk, auwk” but the Chickadee-dee understand, spring to, do.  titter back to the end of the bed singing as a few “auwk” and “auwk” more escape me.

y (ee) a still Morning good.

i rise, creep near the window and lookout.  glistening silver lattice fencepost corners, walking time for the early, gram school kids spinning around tired parents with bang lunch boxes.

my shower is a Morning rain; nor too hot neither too cold.  water playing my follicles like lyre golden, Orpheus if he was wearing the same calfskin dress with as much grace as my Morning with her Flights and lights.

mmm.  y (ee) a good still Morning.  chicka-sing-song.  waterdee-dee-du.

suds on sweet, with cucumber and aloe, vitamin e, lanolin too.  smells real nice, makes my skin whistle.  shoo-schwoo with the shampoo, almonds and hemp seed oil, nicy(ee) nicy(ee).  all those kitchen smells make me member, childhood and creekbeds, worn shoes in running water.  hot summer days and plenty chicka-sing-song.

member i grandpa, and grandma too, their tough farm skin, hard-working southern skin, but nice to the touch.  tested true.  like mine this Morning do.  suds off but sweet stay, member lather all day i dee-do.  puff puff towel all over my new Morning skin.  breathe deep, smile to myself in the mirror, see grandpa-ma in me.

mmm y (ee) i do.

sun stayed right there, just lounging on my futon while i was in the bathe.  yoga salutation, one- two.  quick nod and thoughtful “om” to the dee-do Chicks before i slip into my clothes and they out the window.  we’ll meet up later.  tomorrow latest.

fresh cleaned cotton, still warm from the mat last night late.  all my favorites washed and ready to go-do.  open door and stick a wet thumb in the air.  not nor neither.   just right.  mmm.  into cotton slacks, cotton t, nostick honey cotton sweatshirt and the big shoes.  comfy.  y (ee) my Morning good good still.

outside and moving towards Astoria coffee shoppe.  caffeine friendly head waits patiently for the fix.  day warmer than i expected and the honey gets sticky, too much shirt sweat and the big shoes be slipperied soon.  walking, taking off honeyed cotton and tie waist around.  nothing i can do about the big shoes.  i’m feeling the y (ee) slipping.

i cry, “my (ee) my (ee).”

but it’s a nice day y (ee) i don’t mind working a little harder for it than usual.  there’s just so much i can do though, out here, no chicka-sing-song for only me.  angry and fast chestnut Flights zoom in and round AstoraQueens.  my home, but not my house.

this but is how she my Morning begins most every theseday.  she shakes off tiny fragments of onetime dust.  bleeding clay i try but to remember days of rosy blood, when more than she my Morning woke me.

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