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?

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