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
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.