In the late, gray January morn you have already moved on.
Though the evergreens stand like Japanese watercolors in the fog,
you’re making breakfast in your mind,
making plans for the day.
Though springtime stirs, but has hit the snooze—
and those evergreens are studded with pearly dew,
you’re checking movie times,
scrambling eggs, moving on to Monday
Though all this magic surrounds you in the moment
your clock strikes a different hour, a faraway chime—
There is no time like the present,
and little time for that.