a different kind of awake

There are some mornings
when you wake up,
somehow, more awake.

You can feel the chill of feet on the cold floor,
You can hear your tummy turn and shift, your bones creak into place.
The quiet is its own song.
Your coffee tastes hotter, sharper.
The honey on your toast, stickier, sweeter.
Your synapses fire faster. Your senses engage.
You look at people, truly see people.
You feel the shower water rhythmically pelt your skull,
drip from your shoulders.
Memories are closer, more accessible, more rich.
Your heart pounds at injustice,
and your eyes well up at moments that would usually be ignored.
You dream a little more easily, more readily, in color.
You remember you have talents and hopes and gifts that will help this world.
And when you hug, you feel that warmth,
and you hold on a little longer.

And there’s no way this awake
could be coaxed, encouraged, manufactured,
or made into your morning pill.
You can’t mindful your way into it,
or pray it into being.
It is a gift, so divine, so appreciated,
that you instantly covet more,
so maybe life can be suspended –
but unfolding  –
just seeing with these new eyes.
But the absence of this awake
in the dreary basic day to day,
probably only makes this awake
more extraordinary, more intense,
more a gift –
and easier to see.