Before Breakfast, After Sunrise

The morning.
I look and see
if the fires have sent
their secondhand smoke.
I consider opening the windows.
I do not open the windows.
The morning has enough breeze
to tickle the tree fingers
and I am reminded of a tree
in Wisconsin in winter
that inspired a poem that is in a calendar
among hundreds of others.
The morning looks at me.
I feel seen.
I feel obsecene.
I feel green.
My closed windows cut me off
from the morning.
My first person crutch
makes me talk.
I am talking with myself.