In the morning I make coffee in the dark
The kettle, the spoon, the coffee jar,
each know their places well.
Just so,
my fingers wrap the worn red mug,
the stairs,
the chair where I watch the silent shadows play.
Just so,
riding out to meet dawn’s faint promise,
the road’s familiar glissando.

Each small landmark,
established bearings,
determined running time
carry surely from here to there.

But at sunrise I stand by the door
watch the mist over the Campo brighten,
for a moment wreathing
spires of the house of kings,
city towers, all the ranks of apartment blocks,
and wonder, as the axioms of daily geometry unfold,
at horizons that contain moments of such magnitude.

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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