I am waiting for the sound of my front gate
And the thump of the newspaper on the wet stone.
I am waiting for the second love bird to sing back to his partner
While they bathe in the still water fountain out back.
I am waiting for the slow grinding of the day to begin.
I am waiting for the light to come which seeps into all of us
Making the day real and the night, forgotten.
I think if I stay in these soft sheets dotted and sprinkled with flowers my Grandmother knew
I will skip the day as it needs me to carry on.
There are times when I trail a finger on the sheets as I arise
Reluctant to let go.
Tracing a desire for stillness, blankness, only the sounds of the house
Marking the movement, keeping it, soothing me
Before the world begins again.
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