I feel Morning loosening her grasp
on me with the pass of each brighter
hour. I have missed her so much
on days when I woke up before
she arrived, gotten home when
she had long since gone to bed.

She tells me she has missed me too,
whispers poems in my ear, but
her voice keeps getting softer.
I strain to hear. I want to savor
every moment of early, of new,
untainted day. She lets me.

I tell her I don’t know when
I’ll be able to listen like this again.
Our home is always abuzz with
presence, with loud demands,
or whatever is left of us after
the week is done. I am hardly
ever alone enough to press
my ear against her lips like so.

She shushes my racing heart,
tells me she will be there always,
even if I am not, waiting to tell me

the story of the gears that shift inside
all of the flowers, push their petals
out to receive the sun.

Micaela Walley is pursuing her MFA in Poetry at the University of Baltimore. Her work can be found in Oracle Fine Arts Review, Gravel, ENTROPY, and Huffpost. She currently lives in Hanover, Maryland with her best friend—Chunky, the cat. 

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