But for the weed that gropes my eastern wall
and spreading ficus near the fridge
and spider plant on the window ledge,
daybreak inspires no life at all.
The sun that rakes the hardwood floor
and strikes dumb cells with UV beams
greening the leaves on aggressive limbs
abhors the darkness in the corner
wherein I swore, lives before, to rise
with these first rays. Wherein instead
I remain in bed, as loath to stir as the newly-dead—
As grudging with words of praise.