The floor blurs the morning and gives her back to me,
blending cream and pastel wedges, softened edges
of a landscape far more wont to prick the skin.
The day begins not all at once,
but with a crescendo—she fills
the windowsills with the full-bodiedness of her hues.
In gossamers and dew, she pads to the panes,
and how willingly they drink her; I cannot help
but think her even more exquisite as she bends,
as refraction gently sends her sprawling to the ground.
She murmurs; avian calling fills the sound.
I greet her whispers over scrambled eggs and tea:
she’s heaven even when unleavened and diluted.
I loose my moorings and melt into her sea. Oh what linen-soft
simplicity of a universe, undisturbed and muted.
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