the gods live in the morning

the stillness of the early morning sits
heavy and warm, an invisible blanket piled
between our bodies and the houses,
and it forms soft folds
over the water.

even the mountains are stepping softly.
even the street lamps whisper.

and the steam that pours
from the chimney of the house
across the alley moves
without moving,
in deep breaths, greets
the indigo sky -
a polite warning that the day waits.
waits for none.
(as on overnight flights, when
fake morning has come after too-few
night hours, and the cabin is lit
slowly: blue, first pink, pink first,
then orange. orange. orange. then
cold bread, soggy eggs, too-sweet smiles.)

i hold the sweetness of these moments,
hardly breathing for the joy
that glides between our shoulder blades, lifting
us gently, lifting without
a sound.