Gently, the day was blooming,

The robins awoke at 6:30. Winter sunshine filters through imbricated blinds and bare twigs tap sharply against the frosted glass.

Alone at the kitchen counter with blued shadows painting the walls, counting through the moments with a beating heart. The clock stares with expectancy at your stillness and scoffs at your wish for the fullness of one last luxurious minute. The perfect minute, full of substantial seconds you could really bite into.

Then something twists inside of you                                                                                Sprinkling sweetener across an orange,                                                                              Stirring oat milk into green tea.

Into the bedroom, into the bathroom: A square mirror, an oblong mirror. Plant yourself like a spruce tree right before the long mirror. Again, the sweater is soft; you like how it hangs about your shoulders, how it rushes to the ground in a deluge of warmth that halts at the fingertips.

Before the front door, you declare you will surrender to the ceaseless shedding of eyelashes; Lay down to the procession of languid mornings, the orisons of eternity.

Just one of many ways to observe                                                                                How gently the days are leaving.