Three gentle taps on the pine door at dawn
To see if you are awake
The sound of bare feet meeting the cracked floor boards.
Something about this time of morning
All of the windows open
Inviting the cool September breeze in.
The whistle of the kettle.
You, across the glass table
Your reflection hazy in the glass.
It was symbolic of the morning.
Balance hasn’t come to me yet
As I spill my tea on the glass.
The sunrise reflecting in the little puddles of earl grey.
You make a joke about the laws of gravity
A beautiful disaster
is what you called me.
I had never really considered
How everything that is up
Must come down
If it is not supported.
The boiling water has to settle.
I made a silent promise
to your reflection that morning in the glass table
I will always keep you held up high.
The wind was higher now
A storm is showing its face.
The mahogany boards split slightly under your feet
As you walk to shut the windows.
High, then low
Your feet on their tip toes reaching the window and grounded again.
You grab the towel hand stitched with little forget me nots
To clean my mess.
What was left of the sunrise remained reflected in your eyes