MAY

First to rise this Friday morn,
he enters the kitchen from the shadowed hall,
thinking only of the weather
and his forthcoming jog.
He tries not to contemplate money or Mozart.
It's a moment before dawn,
the air is cool and dry, the roads are quiet,
the birds enjoy the rising sun
as they embroider the tranquility
with subtle songs.
Standing on the flagstone floor
of the entrance way,
he finds a bottle of time
and enjoys chilled water from the fridge
with its sweaty surface,
it awakens his mouth, throat
and various organs
as it plummets towards his stomach
and he silently thanks
the keepers of electricity and technology
for allowing this refreshing discourse
with modernity.
Soon he will leave to teach,
replenishing the source for this comfort
through a discussion of genius
he can barely realize,
but for now he only wants to think about
the air, the light and its soft touch
upon his skin as he makes his way down
the silent roads, into the wondrous
break of sun, mounting the hills,
highlighting the sleepy pines
upon their uppermost crowns
and the dynamo of life
which rattles the window shades
of every house he passes.