Sunday morning

I tend to wake up early
Sunday and the world is still asleep or groggy
rain falls and falls and thunder announces the sun has risen
but isn’t making an appearance just yet
I open my windows 
a cool breeze blows in

there are plants outside my window
tall plants as I’m on the second floor
in the past they have been trimmed but this season
the stalks have grown and the people below
probably cannot see out
these plants sway, though not quite trees, they sway
thin and leafy, they blow back and forth in the wind
and I wish I was like them
I wish I could gracefully move about all the while standing firm
dancing an ever so subtle dance while whispering “all is well”
growing and encompassing my space because it truly is my place
I imagine one day soon a landscaper, or at least someone paid to trim
will chop, chop, chop the bushes or vines or whatever they are
shorter, ever shorter until they no longer obstruct the view
or maybe, though doubtful just maybe, they will continue to reach higher
until they are as tall as the rooftop

the possibilities a rainy morning yields
wishes I have for myself and others
if only I could stretch these early hours
make them last and include the forays of my pre emerged thoughts
instead I linger here
listening to the silence before I invite the music

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