Sometimes I wake up so sad.
This morning I had to force myself
to put on my boots, to leave my room.
Outside my door I find the city
cold and brewing with busy city people walking fast.
I, too, walk fast
toward the river. Across
one of its many bridges
to a place with trees.
I look for their waving leaves,
follow their call up granite stairs,
to a bench dressed in graffiti
overlooking the waking city.
I count chapel spires
piercing the sky.
I count arched bridges
connecting the two sides.
The river is shining; the sun is kissing
its rippling shoulder just as it is kissing mine.
The leaves are singing. The wind is blowing
my hair, my cheeks.
I can’t help but sing, too.
The chapel bells begin ringing
and the Great Dane behind me starts howling.
The birds, I just now hear them chirping.
And the man with the dog, he
he has begun whistling!