Cold. Holy. Morning.

I only know what morning is
by the way it holds my bones.
It’s the only cold I welcome there
And I feel it, most, alone.

The morning holds me in it like
the water holds the fish.
Like I should try to breathe it in
To be more of what it is.

And the morning is inside of me
the way the water’s in the fish
The morning moves inside of me
Like a fear inside a wish.

Most mornings I forget to think,
and so I chase the cold away
before it can remind me what
my life will cost that day.

But the cold is how I know I start
with a grace as yet unearned.
The crystals of my rising breath
Are holiness confirmed.