Morning Forgets

A Free Verse Poem

Exhaustion follows

my singing this morning,

through smoke and heat,

and I crave the love

that feels how lavender smells.

The morning forgets me,

as I like it to,

and I find a withered route,

which is a favorite song.

Beside tea and

a to-do list I will ignore,

the music of tragic seasons

makes me smile

as I move for the door,

to work among a dead forest,

our living library.

I am my own ghost

amid familiar halls and aisles,

and I wish that sleep

had been more forgiving.

But for now, I hum a song for all seasons.