Hidden below their adornments
My feet begin to rustle the cotton sheets
The two largest of my toes stroke their slender neighbors
Those which remain, anticipate arousal
Beneath the folded pillow, upon which rests my head
A Crooked arm slides against the mattress
Tingling nips my fingertips
They awaken to the rhythmic tap dancing
Of raindrops into the trough
Nestled amongst the branches of the mother oak
A chipper chorus
Accompanied by the insistent horn of a distant train
Serenades me with its reveille
Relentless Dawn
Paints lines of demarcation as she violates her way
Through the blinds, tickling open my eyes
Good Morning, Sunday.
Copyright © 2009 M. Gresham All Rights Reserved
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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Your words create a beautiful description of a Sunday morning, very nice.
ReplyDeleteMichelle, I really enjoy your writing.
Have a great day,
SQ