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.