Light oozes across the room—
a slow, golden spill,
meandering across the floor
forming an inviting pool of warmth.
Even the embroidered flowers on my quilt,
want to unfurl their petals
as the rays catch on the curve of my shoulders,
making them warm as tea and toast.
I am not here. I am not there—
I am lit from within,
more powerful than gravity
between dreaming and waking,
where time is malleable
warm clay, shaped by me
The cogs of life grind forward—
feet shuffle, toilets flush,
activity bustles, kettles whistle,
and screen doors slam,
with a rhythm of castanets
in the hands of a toddler.
Not here in my morning bed.
Here, silence breathes beside me,
the air smells of childhood memories
of fresh-washed linens in the breeze.
No clock calls my name.
The sun, my chauffeur, waits with grace.
We turn to face one another,
luminous and liberated.
I stretch and yawn
and smile all the way down to my toes
as I choose to rise
and give my alarm clock a big, fat kiss.
