A New Poem

Morning comes in on bare feet,
lifts the sheet and peeks at me, smiles.
Says, don’t you want to get up?
The window is open
and I’ve heard the birds singing the dreams they had last night.
Pick up your head, she says. 
Don’t you want to step out from under the heavy night?
Today the sky might be bluer than ever before,
and breezes are already teasing.
And now it is still quiet
the floor is not too cold
and that is a kind of grace, like the pink tinge
on the edges of a new sky the color of cream,
like early breath
and new things,
like the birds in all the trees, 
singing their dreams.