Still

A poem about the space between sleep and waking up - with a slight Cartesian slant

In the cool, small morning
I grow into the darkness.
Out, past the soft swells of traffic
and far away planes,
past wind-whipped trees
to the sleepy suburbs of my senses.

Where dog-bark bows
play strings of thin air,
where night owls and early-birds
pass near dew-damp hedges,
their mumbled greetings softened
by distance.

In the cool, small morning
I grow into the darkness
and I am,
still.