Boxing at Dawn

Daybreak is my absolute favorite time
of the day--
the crisp freshness of the air,
dew drops glistening in the cool grass,
the morning globe suspending smartly above my horizon
like a terrible pin prick full of potential--
too bad I've missed this the past couple of weeks
of daybreaks.

I'm having an awful time getting up in the mornings.
Quite unusual.

My favorite set of waterfalls were practically
dried up yesterday. The water, stagnant.
I crept behind a secret alcove
and checked on a letterbox I had hidden nearby,
sometime last year.

At first, I thought the box was missing--
it was so well hidden. My fingers ran
the mossy edge of the stone and I had
to tiptoe to reach the tiny fairy grotto.
The people who had found the box last
did an excellent job of recovering it with bits of bark.

The contents, much to my satisfaction,
were quite dry, locked away in zippies.
I didn't count the visitors, but instead, reveled
in their congratulations on finding the perfect hiding spot.

One couple had been on their honeymoon--
another person claimed that this was her first box.

I came home and immediately informed a fellow
that the box had NOT been washed away by floods--
even if I had read reports of another smallish
waterfall forming over the grotto itself . . .

Strange. I feel like there are little pieces of me
stuck out in unseemly places through the woods--
no matter what happens in my day-to-day,
I must remember that
there are little boxes of me tucked away into bits
and nooks of fallen trees
and behind small gatherings of mossy rocks,
awaiting the sky to turn pale in the mornings
and to flood into color of an evening. Counting rain drops
and lightning crashes--
snowflakes. Watching the worms.