My morning is ancient and it fills me with gardens of wonder, hanging within my otherwise barren mind, empty save the waters that wish to flow.
I sit here in this cradle of life and rock the babe that sleeps within. That is, I would, should the child ever sleep. Someday the restless feet and sirens mouth will decide that the best time to announce oneself is not when the rooster invites competition, but rather when the body is refreshed and the mind has sprung forth fields of substance capable of providing for the day. Someday he will realize this, and then, the cradle will rock.
Today is not that day.