The morning’s bakery is a silent one.
And the sun is the humblest of bakers,
but soft stirrings of lemon-cream light
kiss the curtains, and tenderness teases
the soul awake:
lifting, rising
in the warmth (the quiet promise)
of a pure stillness that melts
on the tongue.
Notes of honey, round droplets
of the softest, slowest gold
flow like day across patient, waking hills
across eyelids pale,
and faces turned toward dreams.
Yellow and white,
clouds of flour and air
grey earls the color of sleep.
The sun blushes,
dressed in tufts of powdered sugar,
but the soul is stirring,
and the breathing
is deep.
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