There are days when I just want

To sit at morning like a feast.

Pulled-up, tucked-down, crinkled

At the edges, a used laugh

Lying on the corner of your plate;

Want to pass you the day's own

Thousand-taste relish with a tart

Fillip of the gracespoon, watch the

Resonances play across your palate

And tweak you into mischief;

Want to stretch a half-thought through

The earnest sun lying nearly risen

In your hair, hear the counterpoint

Gurgling beneath the wind, feel

A breath of whisper on the soul.