kitty on cutting board.

there is a kind of light this month
it arrives in the morning, deceives me on the hour
every day thinking it’s later/i’m late
this light not blue, not white
not exact and never again unless
a late day storm executes perfect the pause
between the rolling in and niceties

and there is a kind of music
that will make you write about this light
while the light is still there
a hue in my heart and a hue around self
of clicking and bends

and there is a love
that introduces you to the notes
to a song that slowly dissipates
the death of tape
the one that makes you write,
and it is about this light
the light that could be storm but is
new day, a morning
a waking up.