Mornings follow mornings, days repeat them
as though they want to merge into one vast morning.
The corner road by the playground turns from fresh shade
and pulls up directly in front of the sun.
Each morning this happens a little bit earlier,
soon, perhaps by tomorrow, it will be too early even
for the road & it'll wake caught in sunlight.  

It's worth starting the day early.
Wearing a glove of dreams we skated across
icy tracks to live & sleep through the darkness. 
To open the windows & air the room. In the morning
cold air positions itself on all fours between
the floor and the ceiling & holds the entire day upright.
White cherry tree, last snowdrops, new ball in the courtyard. 

There's no nature mornings can't find.
Nothing is unnatural. Work flows from one morning
to the next, the postman rehearses his way address by address,
until gradually he empties the gold-blazing bag
and rests by the low wall of the fruit orchard. The bee doesn't notice him.
Children from the kindergarten, on their walk, make a ring round the parked bike
like a delightful forecast for the next day morning. 

On flexible string, taut from the early morning
washing hangs, socks walking in the wind, tottering
trousers approached by noon falling almost
into a forsythia bush. That rare connoisseur of morning,
the invisible cuckoo, lays out trap eggs and sings
from the tree opposite. The echo is a fleck of time
that passed from morning, and came back on a moment's delay. 

Throw the ball toward me. I'll chuck it back.
No matter if it runs out onto the road. It's worth the try.
The cherry lit in the darkness sheds blossom all the way to daylight,
and in the morning white the ball lies by the edge-wall and looks
like an egg. Next to it cold air is parked.
Returning from the sunny walk, one of the children
finds it & carries it to the playground & everyone follows : 

It's never too early to repeat the exercise.