morning, notes to myself

imagine thinking that you love the morning, what could possible determine such a strange thought. A time of day.

An old shirt is a worn and perfect second skin, better than a new shirt, its rustlings and the papery sound of its movement as you breathe, your epidermis feels the old cloth that drapes around your body, shoulders, back , neck, chest, arms are celebrated by the cloth. Who loves whom ? The shirt or you ? As you move things down the garden path at midday, the breeze seems to caress us through the fabric. We are mostly incapable of discarding an old much loved shirt, the choice to discard, to place the frayed in the recycling bin. The shirt is much closer to us than the more disposable teeshirt or the jacket in whose pockets we habitually put notebooks, pens and the paperback book we are reading, perhaps even more than the trousers which we put on each morning o face the day, perhaps to sit in the car and drive northwards…