Wish me no good mornings,
for “morning” comes from “mourning,”
and I will not suffer any grief on this grand day.

Simply look out
your brick-encased window:
the birds are howling,
the sun is blasting,
the trees are climbing the air,
conquering more of the city,
every photosynthetic second.

We have hours like no other
with promise dripping
from the tips of the tentacles of the fantastic.
Is it too drastic to say that I love this day?
No way!

But identify it differently, please.
Today is not a good morning.
It is something far finer than that.