Morning

I move my body as morning wakes up
I stretch my legs as she stretches her arms
I run up hill, around the block, across the street to the next set of painted houses

I run past green lawns
Potted plants
Garden gnomes, and stop

In front of a white picket fence
Paint peeling off its grey weathered posts
I laugh a loud at this age-old metaphor

Leaving impressions in the early morning mind
No one ever tells you
That you need to repaint your white picket fence