Every morning, I wake up, get dressed, go downstairs to let the dogs out,

to start breakfast, I pick up the camera,

switch it on, choose a lens, feel it’s good and heavy weight in my hand,

snap everything into place, put on my cap, my boots.

I love the sound of the old farmhouse,

creaking and groaning a bit, like a beautiful

old steamship setting out of the harbor,

proud and steady. So quiet, the soft yellow

light spreading gently across the big old rooms.

I feed the cats,  let the chickens out of the barn,

throw them some pumpkin seeds, and I

yell good morning up the hill to Simon, a donkey I love,

who brays good morning back to me.

The sun is soaring over the big barn,

lighting up the hillside like a spotlight on Broadway.

Inside again, I look out of every window.

Where, I wonder, is the light this morning?

Shining on what? Casting what shadows?

And my heart beats with excitement. What can I love today?

What can I look forward to? What will come into my life,

And I look up the stairs  and smile with gratitude to you, my heart, curled up

asleep in bed, a baby’s sleep, so deep and untroubled and pure.

Come down to me. I am waiting with your buttered muffin,

your tea, your bowl of fruit, with colors mixed, arranged in an arc,

the way an artist would want, would deserve.