Morning Person

Or “Mourning Person.” A poem by Doug Muder, 2006.

These days I start my mornings in the Past

with you.

When the grayness before Dawn breaks through my window,

when the trumpets of the Morning call me into battle,

I resist.

Holding my eyes closed tight,

I retreat into my old half of the bed

And slide backwards, month on month,

until I hear myself bustling in the kitchen,

grinding coffee, making toast.

Or some mornings I am in the study,

ripping open mail, scratching out checks.

Such a busy boy I am,

so eager to get on with it.

You, not eager, curl up like a large cat.

You breathe the way a flower opens and closes to the Sun

in a rhythm too slow for me to notice

(unless I change).

Carefully, I extend my arm and pull you in.

Because, I now believe,

you are dreaming that I will, someday.

Such a day that would be, if


we held on to the last of Night.

And faced the Day,



Stealing these moments left unguarded,

I feel your warmth,

and listen to myself rattle about,

until the smell of coffee wakes you.