On mornings like these
When the hours are slow and drapey
The easy trickle of poetry sharing
Or dreaming of new ink and the travels to and from
Or touching your curls
Or pouring more coffee.
It was 11 am just a moment ago and now
It's 1, and now it's 3
and it doesn't matter today.
The typing and the sipping
soft and warm,
(which always build on top of themselves, after all) floods me with gratitude and awe.
What other response is there?