Sunday Morning

The world is too much with us
as I slip on my jeans,
bare feet plodding
across a wooden floor,
not mine.

The world is too much with us
as Sunday starts,
saffron rays sending messages,
the day is yet.

The world is too much with us
while the smell of coffee fills the room,
fresh,
knowingly,
asking questions so early,
always there,
while dust plays in the sunlight.

It's Sunday morning and I'm on my second cup coffee (waiting for it to finish dripping actually) while I wait for the outside temperature to slowly climb high enough that I can go for a ride. Mountain biking to be exact. It's supposed to warm up to the mid -seventies this afternoon but I can't wait that long. The weather channel shows it's still 45 degrees but I think they are lying. I'll give it another hour and head out anyway.

The above snippet of a poem is something I came up with at a creative writing class years ago. Our instructor gave us the first line and said, "You have 20 minutes, create something." So I busted out a short poem. That was 18 years ago and that poem is still in my head, although it never gets reproduced the same way twice. I always manage to find a new word or line that I seem to like better at the moment. What made me think of that was the coffee, btw.

I knew it! I told you they were lying! I just poked my head out the door and there's no way it is still 45 degrees.. it's gotta be in the mid 60's by now. I don't know why they always try to make the weather sound worse than it is - maybe it's so you'll stay inside and glued to the TV (and therefore supporting all of their advertisers)? Yep, I was right. Just checked for myself and it's 66 degrees. In another 45 minutes I'll be able to wear shorts and a t-shirt. This will be a good morning to ride.