55/365: morning stories (published in Mindful Word)

the fall sun just over the trees
leans shadows that are long stories
from the fence posts
lining the road I am running on.

my own shadow stretches out to the west
broken by the rough of grass,
then granular with the asphalt -
this is suddenly the measure
of what is left, I realize.

the light has a metallic truth to it,
unavoidable hard realism,
not like the fairy twilight
that blends the worlds of waking and dream.

but the sweeping reach of the shadows
do not put me into the present
the way the noon sun will,
hanging overhead like an inquisitor's bulb -
undeniable and demanding of truth,
but only the truth of now.

instead this early morning light
forces reflection over what is yet to come.
one must wait until the evening
when the shadows trail into the past
to ponder what has been done.