For now, neither the morning nor I
am captive. We move carelessly.
The cat snoozes in the curl of the quilt
knowing I can't make my bed.
My daughter sleeps so soundly
she may wake whole again.
The neighbors have left,
the small boy's voice piping
behind him like ebbing traffic.

And despite a week's forecast
of clouds and rain, for now
the sky invents brilliant blue.
A sunbeam finds a diagonal
across my keys, my work.
I must work and work well
on this empty beach of morning
that promises like a lover's goodbye,
hoping "soon," meaning, "now."