Just another morning

The window open while you make coffee,
I smell the flowers. This is the season
they grow everywhere.
Syringas, you whispered earlier, pansies,
hyacinths, lilies of the valley.
(Hyacinths? Do we still have them?)

They have names, surely,
but I don’t care to call them anything
as they all are: this morning,
a blend of sweet and friendly.
I imagine a rose, that would be nice,
with the coffee cup you bring.

When I put my glasses on, however,
I see it is not coffee and no rose
but a new dustpan. Hint, you smile.
It’s time to rise. Almost noon.
I close the window to lock
the memory and the scents away.

The day has begun
hours before me,
already weary and troubled
but I’ll catch up soon.

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