WHAT OFTEN HAPPENS

Sometimes he meets a morning

made to sing, to dance, to dress

in leaves and flowers.

It's just a little morning,

a dawn that doesn’t flaunt itself

or masquerade as something

it isn’t, for it's simply wind

among the branches

and sunshine on some steeples.

It's a song

sung by a some birds

bringing just what they can

to this unassuming morning

that meets him

as he sits at his desk

with toast and juice.