This morning, I watched the sunrise from the window ledge
in Yuma, Arizona.
Face pressed to the camera,
50mm lens pressed against a window,
I click a few times to embed this morning, this sun
all its phases, in my eyes.
Red-orange beams glow around silhouettes of palm trees
thick aroma of Seattle's Best are just a few notes
on why I pursue this state as my home,
I spent most of that morning
looking out upon mountain sihlouettes,
-amethyst and indigo in their steadfast presence-
writing and telling myself that a year
go fast, faster than I could imagine.
I told myself over and over again
like a mother tells her baby:
everything will be okay.
My shoulders ache from
my troubled thoughts rotating
over the rising steam of coffee.
A sip, a hot touch to my lips,
helps me rejoin the present moment
instead of tossing my energy
into the far-off
days, months, year ahead.
But some morning, 12 months from now,
it'll all be over.
The year of waiting,
between time zones.
There will be no more