My house is magic in the mornings. / Somehow, while I was sleeping, the air has transformed. / It's cleaner, sharper, new-day air, now. / My mom is on the couch, reading a book and taking large gulps of too-hot tea. / Or perhaps she's in the kitchen, testing out a new Pinterest breakfast idea. / My dad is sipping on his coffee, sitting at the kitchen table / Playing a song that he'd written late last night when he couldn't sleep. / Everything is slow, as the day stretches out its arms and / scratches it's belly. / I feel so at peace. So comforted. So content. / I'm cold. I'd gotten out of bed, my warm and cozy haven, / And entered the serene dewy chill hesitantly. / It's brisk, but I don't care. / I cup my fingers around a mug of hot tea and sit / Cross-legged on the couch, watching my mom read, or listening to my dad play. / Sometimes I just watch a gentle breeze that drags its fingers passively through the grass out the window. / My house is magic in the mornings. / The light is soft and blue, / A preamble to a sixteen hour novella / Of possibilities. /
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