Poems for the First Few Minutes Awake

There is a narrow window most mornings, before the day takes hold — the alarm just gone quiet, the light coming grey-then-gold around the curtain, the feet not yet on the floor. For a minute or two, nothing is being asked of you. These are six short poems for the morning, slowly: not a routine to optimize, not a way to seize the day, just a few quiet lines for those first few minutes awake, before the list begins. Read one. Let the day wait at the edge of the bed a moment longer.

Six poems for the morning, slowly

One — Before the Alarm Finishes Echoing

The sound has stopped
but the room still holds it.
You are awake
and not yet anywhere.
This minute belongs to no one,
not even the day.

Two — Light at the Curtain

The light came on its own,
grey at the edge of the curtain,
turning slowly to morning.
It did not need you
to do anything
for it to arrive.

Three — Feet on the Floor

One foot, then the other,
flat on the cool floor.
This is the whole task for now.
Not the day,
not the list —
just the floor, meeting the feet.

Four — Before the Day Asks

Soon there will be the day,
its questions, its hurry.
Not yet.
For these few minutes,
nothing is owed,
nothing is due.

Five — The First Sip

The cup warms the hands
before it warms anything else.
Steam off the top,
the kitchen still half-dark.
No rush in it.
Just the morning, taken in small sips.

Six — Easing In

You do not have to leap into the day.
You can wade.
The light is patient.
The hour is not going anywhere.
Take the first few minutes
the way you would take a slow breath.

A short reflection

There is no order to read these in, and no count you have to finish before your feet hit the floor. The first few minutes awake are their own small country, before the day annexes them — the light arriving on its own, the cup warm in the hands, nothing yet asked of you. One short poem, read slowly while the room is still half-dark, can let the morning begin at its own speed. The day will still be there when you are ready to meet it.

The first minutes of a day decide less than the productivity writers claim, but they do set one thing: the speed at which you agree to move. A morning entered at a run tends to stay at a run, and one entered slowly will usually hand those few minutes back later, when you need them more. None of this asks for an earlier alarm or a better routine. It asks only that the first thing you do is not the list. The light arrives at the window without being summoned, the kettle takes the four minutes it always takes, and none of it hurries because you do. There is more of this hour in the Journal, written at the speed the morning actually moves.

If you would like a few of these to keep, the free reading is here — short poems and a five-minute audio reading in one calm voice, for the slow start of the day. And if you would like more for the quiet edges of the morning, Presence Is the Practice holds more, read aloud the same way.

A note from the Library: these poems are short on purpose. They are meant to be returned to, not finished. — Zen Roots, published by Ledgerstone Press.