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Mark Hollingsworth

The Day Begins

Even the air seems bright. Night has washed away yesterday's judgments. I sit alone outside a café. I read a poem from Mary Oliver's Why I Wake Early and invite it to rise from the page. A fountain in the garden shop across the street. The textures of the potted palm next to my table. One parking meter now in sunlight. Two young men walk by, "I just don't understand people who aren't morning people. They're weird."

morning sun
leaving the dewdrop
a watermark

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