Deeply immersed
in the morning
rhythm of the woods,
I didn’t need
the sun to greet me.
Still, when Sol
popped his head out
from behind the rain clouds,
I was grateful
and gave him
a “Good Morning!” wave.
Deeply immersed
in the morning
rhythm of the woods,
I didn’t need
the sun to greet me.
Still, when Sol
popped his head out
from behind the rain clouds,
I was grateful
and gave him
a “Good Morning!” wave.
New snow, winter warmth,/
sunshine and clear waters call: /
One last canoe trip.
Speed is a function
of an open road.
You’re crawling at the junction
of I’s 5 and 90: Overload!
Your powerful Maserati
is stuck in traffic jams.
His cool Ferrari
moves like overcooked Spam.
While my rag-topped Sebring,
tunes up, top down,
heralds the sunshine of Spring
at 80 mph through town.
And fellow freeway observers cheer at my hands:
dancin’ up in the air, like American Band Stand!
Your hair falls,
soft,
flowing gently,
capturing the morning’s
first gold.
Turning into you,
I face quiet beauty.
Silently,
trembling,
I move your flaxen strands
off your face,
behind your ear,
exposing your skin.
Leaning in,
my cheek hovers above
yours,
feeling your warmth,
like morning sunshine
pulls back the blanket
of the night.
My ear floats
above your lips
so I feel and hear
your deep, morning breath,
tranquil
and at peace.
My lips
part slightly
to breathe softly
into
your ear.
Quietly,
as sweetly and
with as low moan
as possible,
I whisper a gentle
“Good morning.”
You stir slightly.
My face drops soft
against yours:
Cheek against
skin,
my ear against your
mouth’s corner,
lips against
your ear.
I trust you hear
and feel
the sound of one soft,
tender,
breathless
kiss
reverberating
against your skin
and your hearing
through
to your mind
and then your
heart,
and then,
racing,
awakening
your soul,
with a gentle,
non-verbal
morning massage message
of love.
I like waving at/
the sun daily instead of/
just once a quarter.
Or
the sun once a day instead/
of once a quarter.
She sits with her cats,
and books she should have read;
Dreams of Wonderland
and stares vacantly ahead.
As the felines stretch and purr,
and the sun brightly shines,
she hears lawnmowers whirr
and the 2-cycles whine.
Yet she, with so much to do,
moves to her chair from her bed,
stores the words she’s thought through,
and turns on Netflix instead.
For $7.99 she vacates her head,
and buries her mind in The Walking Dead.
As you scatter your/
sunshine and fairy dust, grab/
some for yourself, too.
OR
As she scatters her/
sunshine and fairy dust, she/
should grab some for her.
Hands chilled,
I wait for the sun
to drift past
boats,
ducks,
docks,
riprap rocks,
to warm my keyboard.
As dawn comes
to a near-silent lake
(the 6:01 a.m. to Dallas flys overhead
and the first waterskiers jet out
to meet the waking,
wakeless lake),
I look at site stats.
No one viewed me today.
(She had a busy night.)
I catch up
on poetry written
but not blogged.
Yesterday’s busy sunshine
grew weeds,
lawn,
strawberry plants,
tomatoes to plant,
roses to water,
rhubarb to harvest,
and one,
lone
poem,
published a minute before
midnight.
My one-a-day
goal
remains intact,
not on purpose,
but just
in fact.
My hands remain numb
as I wait for the sun
to come.