Sunday Morning

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

One Moment

Once upon a yesteryear
Uplifted
Upon his shoulders
The world,I feared not
Enclosed within his hands, small, tranquil fists
My lips danced
Controlled by instinctive laughter
One moment
A glance
The synchronicity of a smile

Copyright © 2009 M. Gresham All Rights Reserved