A slow morning - 8.19.19

Let me guide you through the awakening of the senses on a slow Saturday morning.

Tastes

like Pancakes

Salty and sweet

drenched in sticky Amber

and whipped butter

There is an ancientness

to the Black

bitter of the coffee

A scripture

In the murky brew

that makes a morning

 

Sounds

like Silence

appreciated

and comfortable

Calming, even

A tease of Peace

Slow buffering

in the air at its most

Introverted

One could dare call It

selfish

To steal

the Songs of the Birds

Rippling across

small Ponds

For the ears of one

 

Feels

like White Noise

fuzzy

the temperate confusion

of cold against Warmth

With windows opened

let the chill bite

Through the curtains yet

Non-surpassing

The Blanket wall

that divides Heat

and not

Enclosed, Protected

Beneath sheets

 

Smells

like Water

pendulous in air

an Ode to Linger

Blended

with the perfume of waking Grass

Wet with dew, post

Undisturbed photosynthesis

The Aromatic genesis

of breakfast

in the Kitchen

Softly burned oils

Char their trail to

the pillows

Soaked in the scent of

Yesterday past

Looks

like Red light

against the black

Of Eyes opening

Orange rays, warm tones

Dress skin like cotton

Closed

Lips parted

As lovers reach

the Morning Come

In yellow sense

With tranquil determination

Breaking unconsciousness

To shine beyond

that slow Horizon