My Morning

The sun splatters on the fresh purple clouds.

Cars blow past me as they rumble downhill.

 
On the other side of a window, delirious girls fight over a mirror,

and I trip over the jagged sidewalk, 

but as I stumble I see an old man hunched across the street,

taking slow steps.

 
He peers at the drooping trees,

where the small droplets of water

reflect perfectly the sun,

and the roots flow into the patched grass.

He is not in a hurry,

as if searching for the life of the morning,

so I slow too,

and look for the droplets of
water
and in them see the morning sky.