In Somnia

Looking out upon the tired day, although not even dawn,
The barely risen sun winks on the horizon, stretches his arms and wraps his fingers tightly around bouquets of wisteria.
All the roses bow their dew-heavy heads, drunk and fevered after dancing with the dark wind while leaves held down their fragrant petals.

Behind the night’s lightly closed eyes, the new day springs open, like a jack in the box, wound tight, screaming out then laughter, And heckling at no one, but we know there’s a joke here, somewhere.

Flowers bloom from rains upon our tiny urban crop and the turned earth shows us a few worried worms – solace  wraps us in a full embrace, arms opening once again stretching wide.

Trying desperately to capture so much beauty in your net, but you catch the wind  instead and it escapes your cupped hands. You gently  set something invisible to my eyes free from your hands along with a single orange and black Monarch.
Like dusty moths’ wings, or petals fragile and bright,
My own arms turn up to wave and welcome your smooth skin, and a morning Venus shows us her bright skin, warm and welcoming, extended to embrace us as she slips away under the radiant sunlight.
Bring me freshly cut roses inside, gently administered kisses to my cracked cheeks, cover my shouders with a purr warm cat blanket. 

Night yields to the final wings of yellow leaves whispering to me to catch them as they fall, and later crackling under foot complaints of unwilling ends.
We give away the power of this year’s final, broad sweep of the hand of the equinox. I grabbed onto a wooden broom handle to sweep up shards of broken flower pots around our yard, lifted and tossed aside with angry arms of night wind.
Morning points her finger, wagging back and forth in correction. I stand moaning from the steepness of the grade and the sun slaps red my cheeks and pinches at my freckled nose.
Finally, the good Earth moves aside, her sighing signaling exhaustion,
Under the weight of the last of the annuals we planted,
All shocking us with pink, purple, and red.
Irises and Lilies shrink away, rolled up paper soggy from the dewy morning.
So willingly, yet as if merging into the crush of traffic, I rush outside to greet you (and the day.)
Gingerly recovering wet paper from the grass, damp and rippled,
Reconstructing a small sample of yesterday from what’s left over, I won’t dare to share with you any of today’s stories. Boring and consumed by heavier things, my tales make you wince as you would if ants began taking your lunch crumb by crumb back to their hill.
Excited spring bloomed forth a few of our purple irises, and fewer still, scared white lilies.
Fragile tulips in the raised bed of our garden put up silent leafy fingers to their dewy lips, you seem bored to tears.
And so we sit, unmoved.
Please. Just this once, play with me. 

Our yield proves more than anyone could want for, we become like children hitting a piñata blindfolded and screeching. Maybe to the neighbors our crops seem meager and weak:

An abundance to me, but I’m ashamed to admit our yeild just teases me upon closer inspection.
Yet if they only knew…as your eyes glance outside for a moment,
Your mouth turns up nearly smiling at our secret. Finally. A moment.

Like children in a tree house, you and I practice our made up spy game or play house, but we act so naturally it seems real this time. I’m excited again.
Then I see you catch my wink through honey and lemon and the steam of my cup of tea,
And we both savor the exhaustion of this mornings serial dramas, finally seated feet touch under the oak table, bare and grateful.

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