The first together is the morning itself

the marrying wish of dew 

the first dance of the grass

renewed like a child’s clock

the grass sings to the window—

“come down to the sky fields,

come down and re-watch the eclipse

come down, Penelope.”

The early light unaware of the low hum

that entwines the mood of the air, 

strangely worshiping

in high memory cries.

And we remember the ghosts better in the morning

the rising light that is always a grace

on the back of the things you love

scattered through the house like Lego.

The bed remains ancient in its ritual of worship

a personal attack against strangers

made up of all its own Trojan wars

hung in literature, undebated.

It is easy to believe that it is a privilege to grow old 

in the morning and that age is young 

and all that is above will remain immortal

regardless of loneliness.