Why I make the bed in the morning

Some mornings, this bed is a fresh-plowed field

Still ripe with dew and softly radiant;

Others, it is all scorched earth, bright yellow

Coverlet thrown off to relieve the heat;

And occasionally, it lies fallow

Waiting patiently, soaking in the sun.

I always do the same thing in the morning

No matter what the night before has brought.

With the shower singing in the next room

I tuck the sheets and gather up the dreams

Place the pillows side by side, and give thanks

For daylight, and forgiveness, and coffee.