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I pass by the large glossy painting of a wine glass
With French words in crimson paint.
The kitchen table sits like a friendly dog.
There is a glass vase filled with hydrangeas.
The silverware from my last supper shimmers
in the morning light, and I say a prayer when
I see the sun fall on the dewy grass.
I watch the sun as it kisses each sparkling bead of dew.
The grass is long and should be mowed
But I will not mow those long soft tresses.
My cotton pajamas
nuzzle my newly woken body.
My cup of coffee sits heavily in my
thirsty palms.
This is my morning.




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