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.