Mote Morning

By Robert Tighe

I take my place in the padded form

the well-used upholstered chair

dark soft fabric embraced with

vague indecipherable shapes that

themselves remain muted even as

in the undimmed air of the streak of 

morning sunlight direct through the window

tiny flecks of dust rise as I settle 

and surround me, each brightly illumined 

by the warming but otherwise

invisible rays.

I remain unmoving observing 

suspending my plans to read as 

the bright micro-stars float 

suspended in random motion 

slowly back and forth up and down 

impelled by unknown currents

until 

one by one they disappear 

not falling down so much as 

drifting away

leaving me 

once again 

alone.