so I rise as the sun rises,
walk into the kitchen,
my hand touches my silver kettle,
I jump back.

Sunlight through a maple tree
paints shadows on yellow walls –

shadows moving
on every cupboard,
each wooden spoon,
china cups, yes --
even the silver kettle,
even my own hand.

So this is morning
in my kitchen,

as if you're standing in a beehive.
Hundreds of fluttering wings.

There is nothing prettier.
The room trembles,
I blush.