The coffee is steamy for once,
and the sun rises through a layer of gray fog
itself invisible but its light apparent.
To do lists fall out of a journal,
and the indoor herb flops over,
too tall to support itself.
This space is a mess.
Do not mind it.
The trees between the driveways are about to bud–
they have whispers of green poking out–
tiny hints of leaves to come.
Do they too reverberate in anticipation?
Do they too quiver with hope?
I think they do.