A perfect circle, so smooth and crisp like autumn,
cool to the touch like English-mist, the moistened air
is alarmingly refreshing.
In a woolen coat, giving shape to a t-shirt,
my chest is thick
with what will shape my day.
And I can be anything I choose today.
A pauper, or a knight in shining armor,
I could elevate my stature to the grandeur of a monarch
or allow myself the liberty of an artist,
but my choice like all of my prior days is me.
And as I look up in the sort of reverence
that you give to a thing
which in truth deserves reverence but through repetition has grown trite,
I acknowledge the morning,
that beginning when the sun spills over
misting us with light.
A perfect circle, ending what has been a perfect night.