Early Six o’ Clock In the Morning

Loud clinks on the kitchen table, that must be

the tines waving endlessly on the plaid that

I see whenever I come home; that could be, also,

the ceaseless dancing from the cleavers, which

my mother watches, so intensely, as the luckiest

charm that could bless her this morning. A dream

did not end yet, but sounds woke me, so I woke up

with Mozart’s eagerness to compose the next godsend.

However, for I not have to wake up, I see

every incentive to stay in bed and tucking

into the warmth I have gathered all night

without ever perceiving. A warm bed that makes sense.

But I cannot afford to hide inside the warmth, just like

a post-hibernating bear cannot withstand to lose

the opportunities of feeding; there must be a

frozen view for me somewhere. Not just the warmth.

So, to leave the warmth is my first step. And in (early)

six o’ clock in the morning. To what?

To dance with the forks and cleavers, for sure.