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.