Green wheat fields bowed
under morning dew
same as my lashes,
still wet
from a casual 8 a.m. breakdown.
Droplets clung,
like thoughts I couldn’t shake
quiet, glinting,
refusing to fall,
looking almost like expensive jewels.
Steam rose from within,
visible only for a moment
before dissolving.
Teaching me to let go
as natural as coffee steam
curling from a morning cup
I held too long in cupped palms.
Fog wrapped the road
like a soft blanket.
I took a photo,
proof that something outside my head
could still be quiet
and call it
good morning.