With slinking fog
Pushing its way
Up and over the banks
Of the Cumberland,
Napping over the burbs,
And dying off somewhere
Close to the sunlight.
The morning is glass:
A mirror smothered over
In dust from years
Of solitary confinement
In the attic,
Trying to remember the last
Image it held before it was
Put away.
The morning is patient:
It waits for me to open
My eyes and see
What it has done
With no scrutiny
To be had
Until it is too late.
The morning is a mirror
And I am hers alone
To age in her reflection
And speak of how things
Were, how they are,
But how they might be
If she were just a little
Closer, a little more accurate,
In her perception of me.
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