Tomorrow

Tomorrow

The sun will ascend fresh,
Absent of all shadows.
The comfort of the bed
Will release what it holds
Captive by ghostly hand
And the morning shower
Will cleanse the night to day
Leaving merely a mist
On yesterday’s mirror
Of clouded reflection.
Earl Grey will call a name,
With whistling invite,
In happy wispy whiffs
That steam into a cup—
The aroma of tea,
Freshly spiced, in the mist.
Its call will be answered
                               
                                  Tomorrow.