Fresh as Hope

Morning. Always morning.
The air fresh as hope.
The darkness, banished for another day.
There is just enough of you
to start.

Morning. Always morning.
The air fresh as hope.
Another night’s battle won.
Demons locked in their cages
for one more night.

Morning. Always morning.
The air fresh as hope.
You breathe it is. Conscious. Still.
Alive again. Thankful for one more
morning, air fresh as hope.

About this poem

Mornings are the roughest. That is still the truth of my life. But, once I get moving past the dark places, my feet hit the floor with the words “It’s showtime” in my head (and sometimes said out loud.) The morning becomes something else. A thing of victory. For another day. Air, fresh as hope.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken near my home, on the mountain that overlooks my favorite diner.