I have been getting up early to take a photo of the sunrise

from your porch, shrinking it to fit the screen of my phone.

There is something about the soft colour of a new day

that makes me think about the word ‘grief’,

that it is too short and should make more of a ripping sound.

Last night we talked about our childhoods,

how they are strung through us like tripwires.

You asked me how I practise self control

and I told you about the stark moments of vigilance

that protect me from everything I can’t see.

I am learning about pleasure by watching the leafless tree

in your garden lean towards the house for its greenness.

The morning shifts through its branches, pulling it close.

Soon it will be spring, and we will understand

that our bodies are not things for us to fight against -

we know to be tired when it gets dark, for example.