POETRY
Morning — II
As mist before the sun dissolves
into the waiting air around it, warming
with an evaporating sigh,
so on the weekends the dawn
quietly rolls over and disappears
behind the blissful veil of sleep.
The Lioness, with the languid glow of sleep
still rich and thick about her limbs, dissolves
into her cleaning routine, while the dark of night disappears
with the day’s approach, warming
her bones. She smacks her lips at the dawn
and with a yawn, stands to stretch and sigh.
On quiet feet, she jumps from bed, little more than a sigh
through the room, leaving the others asleep.
She sees through the grey dawn
as she descends to the bowl where hunger dissolves.
She takes up her vigil, awaiting the warming
to come before the fire. She closes her eyes and disappears.
Little by little the morning minutes disappear
and, weary with waiting, she sighs
and takes up another journey, back to the warmth
of her pride, still…
