Photo by Maria Louceiro
Work
Michael O’Connor
Morning ebbs in a gentle swell
like distant water lapping.
I roll to my right, watch the yellow light leak
under the bathroom door, tickling my eyelids open.
5:15 am.
The well-worn clock of her routine clatters and whumps
as she readies for work behind the door.
I close my eyes
think about her steam shrouded hair dripping,
wringing out her last remaining dreams.
When she kisses my forehead goodbye, I do not move,
not wanting to disrupt this brief intimacy,
but wait for the throaty purr of the Equinox heading for Target.
I’m not the kind of man who questions rituals
or particularly believes in them
but this simple sequence of events seems somehow crucial.
They signify morning to me.
I take my coffee out to the patio.
My fingers sip the baggy rind of a mandarin orange peel
From the delicate pulp hidden inside, quivering
fleshy, perfect.
Pale pink rhododendrons
edge the yard
the buds pursing their surprised lips to the thin sun.
I whisper to the deer who munch green acorns
dropped early by the night winds.
A storm is coming.
The oaks stand still in the white pre-storm light
hands in pockets, silver underbellies turned up
listening to the wind sneaking through the top branches.
Higher up, a congress of crows loops in loose circles
heading for the cornfields
and their days work.
Michael O’Connor
Morning ebbs in a gentle swell
like distant water lapping.
I roll to my right, watch the yellow light leak
under the bathroom door, tickling my eyelids open.
5:15 am.
The well-worn clock of her routine clatters and whumps
as she readies for work behind the door.
I close my eyes
think about her steam shrouded hair dripping,
wringing out her last remaining dreams.
When she kisses my forehead goodbye, I do not move,
not wanting to disrupt this brief intimacy,
but wait for the throaty purr of the Equinox heading for Target.
I’m not the kind of man who questions rituals
or particularly believes in them
but this simple sequence of events seems somehow crucial.
They signify morning to me.
I take my coffee out to the patio.
My fingers sip the baggy rind of a mandarin orange peel
From the delicate pulp hidden inside, quivering
fleshy, perfect.
Pale pink rhododendrons
edge the yard
the buds pursing their surprised lips to the thin sun.
I whisper to the deer who munch green acorns
dropped early by the night winds.
A storm is coming.
The oaks stand still in the white pre-storm light
hands in pockets, silver underbellies turned up
listening to the wind sneaking through the top branches.
Higher up, a congress of crows loops in loose circles
heading for the cornfields
and their days work.