by erika

Sitting outside this morning, I am actually cold, even in my  slippers, flannel shirt, and long, green sweater. There is nothing like a chilly summer morning, except perhaps the color a stone turns when wet, or my child’s sweaty hand in mine. Sleeping in is impossible–even when I am granted the grace to do it. Sleeping in would mean missing this soft beginning.  Sleeping in would mean missing out. I would rather be awake for this moment–when the undersides of things are the same minty temperature as their surfaces and my brain the same quiet as the air. Right now, the day is still a cool stone in my palm, all its colors revealed. And though it will be dried by the heat of the day and my mind busied with the frenzy of passing hours, I have this small window when I am truly AWAKE.