it writes.

Sunday Morning


Violet light spreads
like watercolor,
patterns blooming over the walls

The white quiet of morning
except
the squeak of your feet
They scamper across wood

The bed sheets rustle like
handfuls of peonies
A blue-jay presents himself,
his squawking call bring us
out of our morning fug

You are warm and
slightly sticky
You smell of peanut butter
and shampoo

You smile as you nest down,
triumphant
We will pretend to sleep--
another ten minutes perhaps--
before you spring up electrified,
Demanding pancakes for breakfast

**from the journal, 4/21/12