MORNING MUSE

Dawn sneaks into the room,
Hugging its corners,
Whispering
Darkness to light.

In the courtyard,
The palo verde is an etching
Framed in grey,
Each limb and branch and twig
A memory of seed and root and sapling.

Time slips from the mind,
Light into darkness.
No longer am I me, but
A thought,
Past and present as one,
Etched
And framed in grey.