Sitting on my front porch, I stare out into
The Sunday before me.
An old afghan hugs me tightly,
Protecting me from any chill
And keeping out any
Leftover whispers of winter;
All I feel are the gentle teasing breezes of spring.
With sock feet resting on the railing in front of me
I rock my chair slightly, sipping smooth coffee
With an aroma as familiar as a mother’s voice
That tickles my nose upon the first sniff.
The chatter of small animals to my left
Coaxes my attention away from my mug, and I turn
To look at the pine tree.

But something is wrong, off, unusual about the sun.
The oranges and pinks of a sunrise fill the sky,
A pitcher of warm color being poured
Into the expanse above the horizon.
I check my watch, and find myself exclaiming aloud
Into the silence before me.
“That can’t be right. Oh Mr. Sun,
We aren’t expecting to be blinded for another hour, now.”
I begin to wonder if perhaps my watch
Needs new batteries. Or perhaps I am confused, and this is
Always the time of the sunrise. Curiosity overcomes me
And I am a small child again,
Sitting and staring without shame.
Maybe it’s a trick, and someone has reset my watch.
Maybe father time has wrongly set his alarm, waking too early
And deciding that he may as well start the day.
Or maybe,
Maybe it is none of these things at all;
I sit back and take another sip.

Perhaps even the sun
Likes to get up early on some days
To watch the sunrise.