Mornings

There is only one thing wrong with mornings

They are too short.

By eleven thirty, your morning is in tatters,

Its azure transparent wings ripped and torn

No more flight this morn.

If you are lucky, a morning might extend

until a late lunch.

Letting your indulgences drift indolently

Until one or even one thirty before sharply

rapping you awake.

 

Mornings can be exultant, thrusting you unwittingly

into the fray of life.

A morning taken in full flood brings a joy

and sense of fulfillment in life that an

afternoon will never know.

 

The soft sensual pleasure of early morning love

is exquisite, superb.

The rising sun and growing daylight spill their light

upon the delicate beauty of your face as your

soul surrenders to me.

 

Mornings are the time to renew your promises

to love and life itself.

Open your eyes, see everything that augurs well

and dismiss the spirits of the night that portend

aught but love and joy.

 

Come, my love.  Run, run away with me in this

bright and lovely dawn.

We will know nothing of afternoons with their

dreary darkening skies and fading light, for we

are morning’s child.