Morning

Rose swishing, indifferent to the sleepers on either side,
Starts stretching herself,
Switching positions.
I wake to the small sounds she makes.

The sky still undecided ;
To call for daylight
Or hold the tenuous moments of predawn
When all, and nothing coexist.
Turning onto my back
I hear a rustle from the Magnolia tree
Just beyond the bedroom window.
Softly, its branches sweep the house wall and my sleep.

Not far away car engines announce their presence,
Pursuing a road much traveled.
One, no two humming birds discuss
The wisdom of building a home on my neighbors Ficus.

This is the best of times.
Roof in tact, daylight now cautiously
Works her traces along the wall
Opposite my bed.

With some regret, I rise,
Consider my options:
Exercise, a shave, breakfast,
All seem a mistake.
Id rather just stand, making no choice .

Diana might wake and consider me stuck,
Naked with infantile thoughts
Cementing me to the carpet.
She might decide I’m a very bad Moore sculpture.

What of the morning papers,
Sharing all the “good” news?
When sunshine cuts a line half way
Up the front door,
Shadows have retreated.