In the morning I wake first; always. In hazy solitude I rise, stretch, face myself and the new day in the dim light of dawn. There is no fear of waking you, even the alarm does not rouse you most days. When you do rise, it is in a mass of silent movement and energy, a launching of sorts up the stairs and into the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. I follow behind you, emerging more slowly into the daylight, following last nights trail of you, socks, glasses, books, keys. Much to the cats delight the trees begin to fill with birds. Then you are out the door with a kiss and a wave, a pat on the head as I hand you your lunch. The house stands still, waiting to be reset.
"The house this morning--with its truths
scrambled, blankets and feathers, the start of the day
already in flux--drifts like a poor little boat
between its horizons of order and sleep."
Excerpt from XXXII, 100 Love Sonnets, Pablo Neruda
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Photograph of Pablo Neruda's House on Isla Negra Courtesy of: