A black-top, farm-to-market, road-window breeze. 

An old friend, sunrise, eases through the objecting screen.

Dawn beams softly off her morning eyes. 

Dew  sleeping, on her lazy yard, 

still cool from twilight, 

wet under a set of bare feet,

bare to the knees, 

walking into a forest of pine trees, 

striding alone to hurry back before breakfast

when the anxious kitchen writes a poem 

Careful are the pots not to clang, cling, or clatter

Silence matters at such an hour 

when orange tea is poured 

and good ears are needed to listen. 

The heavy table is familiar like dish and spoon

It's the empty sheets of sweating paper 

that are so strange 

She could've written a novel by now, 

but, now, the river is bathing her with mind adrift ... 

... fish and dragonflies. 

Sunday's perfect dress awaits inside a short closet

. It matches her fabriced skin ...  fish and dragonflies. 

She appears in the clearing

footing porchward 

where shade gathers to perch until evening

when shadows stretch upward onto walls.

She is complete 

... oven-toasted peach marmalade parading her sweet self

with the lure of tomorrow in her eyes