morning

There is gold in the trees, can you see it?

Even in those moments where your lungs groan to acknowledge their wakefulness.

There is gold in the trees, the intersection of lines is waiting to be mined by your eyes.

Only the fronts are gold, only the hour of sleeping breath in the room beside you.

Stir or not, the trees don’t feel the cold and your body is under an avalanche of blankets.

Sleep or not. Sleepy eyes, every morning is edged in gold.

Light and breath are with you.

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