Steam

feathery mysteries take the morning from me
in the silvery light of my spoon,
reflections spark hot wonder in my chest
whispering cold words I cannot answer
any sooner than I could fly; 

where is it? 
where am I?
where to go
next?

and so I simply breathe out the mysteries
into the steam 
that rises from my mug, but from the world too, and the world whisks me away as easily
and softly as batter on a wooden spoon.
it's too early for this sort of thing.