It’s too early for there to be
so much light in the room.

I’ve gotten so used to rising in the dark
that I can’t stand morning,

begrudging how it has taken to
beginning without me;

when I realize
my self-centeredness,

I laugh — to think
that I have held myself

in such regard. But I’m still
not rising, not yet;

not until I shake off
my regret at not having kept up

with spring, my remorse
at not having kept up at all.

I’ve slept till ten or beyond
more than once since the light

began to grow so early.
I do it because I can,

because nothing compels me
to rise lately — no call to work,

no call to be at all alive
until nearly noon;

no words within
begging for the Light.

It’s too early for them 
to be clamoring so hard,

or perhaps too late; either way
it’s been so quiet in there, who knows

what is steeping
inside me — something

that prefers
the Dark.