I wake and pour and feel the swirl of tingling energy, of possibility.
The sun isn't up yet.
A boring work day ahead of me. Boring tasks, all necessary, but none important.
But for now, in this moment, bathed in computer screen light that lights my face as though perhaps I were loojking at the moon, I am a poet and maybe a good one.
Is this what Rachel Wetzsteon felt on her good mornings?