How sweet to wake Eyes closed
unprompted in the dark I run the curtain
with no sense of weight at my window
or boundary of self and feel the sun
but as mist forms upon my skin,
on a distant planet its rose glow
to drip/lactate winceyette
without ubication inside my lids,
of duty or need, the colour
no portolan chart of the blanket
to help navigate in which I curled
the shallows of light when mother
under that curtain. on her shoulder
showed me the world.
If a hundred swallows flew Music led us to a room
overhead I'd be the last overlookng the garden
to see them, eyes on tree tops. where breakfast was laid out
What chance, then, on a misty neat as pipes and organ stops.
April morning, to see one Under a solemn sky
at this lakeside? I mean, what blackbirds pecked at the hard ground,
chance to catch in flight the one giving us hope. That day no
whose darting grace dumbfounded gaps in our conversation
me those many moons ago, needed filling. Standing stones
got me thinking I could fly? and Tanguy's paintings made sense.