I rise at 6.30 AM.

The kind sun is still busy elsewhere.

Until she has time for us so far up North

I tiptoe across the wintery floorboards 

in wool socks the color of tiny rainbows. 

The fulminant explosion of a match head –

what an extraordinary spectacle for hungry

eyes and ears when watched intently, up close, as if 

it were still something special. I transfer that ancient 

spark onto a long-necked candle; it melts walls and 

they become soft like the beaming warmth 

of a silver spoon dipped briefly 

in a bowl of Stracciatella.

This is the exact moment 

in which I become human; I join the long line of knowing souls 

– all of whom time and again rose early (long before 

they owed the world anything at all) merely 

to be for a few revered hours of the day 

no more and no less than

who they were.