Nine-thirty Sunday morning . . .
the preacher, opening the church door
as I drive by,
never hears me belting out
Bobby Bloom’s version of
“What a Beautiful Morning.”
Fat clouds tumble across a turquoise sky,
trees like sticks with no leaves
accent a winter morning.
Across the street, a bird sings
his late January song . . .
spring is racing toward its equinox.
It’s the beginning . . .
a new day;
a chance to start over.
Leave yesterday’s baggage - garbage -
on the road side for the garbage truck;
jump into the present of now attire,
Forget walking . . .
run with all your hopes and dreams.
I tell you . . .
the door is still open.
Take one superman leap and fly.
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