tethered

The early morning chill creeps onto my skin
and causes my flesh to bump with geese.

I should close the window but I leave it cast
open wide because otherwise I could not

hear the sounds of the day which is beginning.
The world begins with the dissolving of darkness

from the horizon, sky being painted over in a shifting
palette of pastels, smearing, smudging, lightening

by the movement of the planetary axis. This is
a common miracle we often miss because of sleep,

because we are tired and half awake while preparing
for work and fixing bag lunches for the children

to take to school. The ambient sounds of early morning
peace become subsumed by the restless vigor

of our daily demands, work, and other obligations
that consume the hours of our short time.

The sun is not aware that we orbit around it, or any
of our names. The weight of its being is so great

that it never has the time for details, just the constant
journey for which it burns through infinite darkness.