In my earlier days,
as the sleepy first ray
touched the wooden shades
in my small bedroom frame.
She would slide with no pull,
her lips drawn in a curve:
"Goood morniiing from
the lark to the blackbird"
That was one other quirk
I could not comprehend
that would bring to me glee
no matter where I'd stand.
Under echoes of thunder
I'd be the one visiting,
her square bright room,
with for furniture a
double bed 'n' a stand.
But the sun exploded
shone its nuclear a core,
and its warm a color:
embraced circular lamps,
dripped along the long drapes,
bounced on the smooth duvet,
poured down the carpet
and swallowed you mellow.
The room has since enlarged
symptoms of a good age
but the color remains
her favorite today.
I still guarantee her sight
gets wrong, blue?, signals
when yellow fills her eyes.
Yet I climb to a nest
when those touches mine.
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