A Morning in May

If I were to tell you

Of a Saturday morning in May,

Of lying in bed as the sun came up

And brightened the room;

If I were to tell you

Of the fluttering curtains,

Of the cool air flooding in

And how I curled up beneath the blankets to stay warm;

Of the birds, some with sweet songs, others harsh,

Of the thump of the newspaper tossed against the door

And the sound of a train approaching a distant crossing;

Of my thoughts in that sleepy haze,

Of my confidence and anticipation

As I compiled a to-do list in my mind;

If I were to tell you

Of the faded and frayed blue jeans,

Of the torn, paint-splotched sweatshirt

And the battered tennis shoes I put on;

Of standing before the mirror,

And thinking my clothes had seen better days

And knowing those days had never been better than this;

Of my breakfast

Of shredded wheat and toast with strawberry preserves,

And how much better it tasted than it did the day before;

If I were to tell you

Of the coffee that morning,

Of its savory zing,

And how I warmed my hands on the mug;

Of going outside,

Of wondering about the fellow who wrote of the day

And rejoicing and being glad in it;

If I were to tell you

Of that fellow waking on a morning like this,

Of his feelings of awe and inspiration

And how they moved him to write about the day;

If I were to tell you,

Would you remember waking up

That Saturday morning in May?