When you don’t go out at night to sit before a fire,
it doesn’t show up in the writing. Like the morning.
Freshly awakened. If the story carries on until evening,
will it also fizzle out with the sun, and end?

If you wake up and write, if that is your habit, then truly wake.
Head shake, rub eyes, gleam, stare hard at blank paper in early hours.
Lose focus through the window, give it to sun-kissed flowers,
brightly lit in morning air. Wake out of it. See it stark dark.
Suppressed under shadow, painted black.

Every bloom has a root, which is not so bright and beautiful.

The fire brands hands with soot,
to remind you in the morning
to write the night before.