I’ve been meaning to tell you about the mornings.

Before the sun decides its rising color, 

and after the dark has reached its zenith

I am alone in the room above the garage.

It is a room where nobody goes, and it is cold.

In the mornings it is especially cold,

but as the mat unfurls, and the icy tips of my toes begin their balance,

the warmth spreads into my legs; an iodine contrast as I begin to move.

Then it reaches my arms, and I am able to touch the sky

through the ceiling. 

Occasionally, cars will cast their headlight shadows across a corner;

the design of light and their patterned play is not of this world.

Or, a bird will peck at its image in the window before noticing my eyes;

she is not of this world, either.

Sometimes, the snow will fall softly outside, silencing my breath;

bending my spine into an arch to attend from upside down.

Before long,

when the room is entirely warm, 

and the sun has endorsed its hue from the beginning to the end of winter clouds

the stretches return something more,

and I become a morning person, again.