Morning comes with stale coffee lingering in the air.
Dogs in and out, and in, then out. Two words erupt.
Then fall to pieces as likely to grow as limestone.
The cord is missing, my laptop still and thoughtless.
Bright sun burns my eyes, warms my hair,
Overheats the brain straining to find a foothold
In actions positive and bright. But the morning hour,
With its teasing laughter, places me in an arid state.
Atmosphere, dry as my mouth, nothing grows today.
Pages to remain blank. Inkless as the well in which
I dip my pen while seeking some other way,
I wish to be in the barren deserts of sand in
Timbuktu, where treasures lie beneath,
Hidden for centuries. Their gift? Knowledge
For the eyes of Africa, hidden from the French,
Manuscripts of jeweled splendor, golden highlights,
Speaking of mysteries solved long ago.
Surrounding a barren land with science, government, humanity.
Like cacti, needling those who would steal their worth.
These documents from the twelfth century, thirteenth,
Fourteenth, Fifteenth. Poetry of the stars to linger.
I would linger in the libraries and ponder how, in an arid desert,
The jewels of creativity could bloom and grow.
I would dally at the question posed of a green world.
How could I, in the setting of new leaves and buds,
Think myself without the soil of imagination?
Such a silly thought that morning is more dry, than the
Deserts of Mali or the great Sahara. Perhaps tea
to motivate and enervate? Or a simple peeled orange?