A new day crept through my open window.
A whisper of yesterday presses its hands against my swollen belly.
Hunger rises in my hunters core.
Outside, I hear the dance of tribal song.
I ponder it’s significance.
Where does the sun breed it’s beacon?
I toss and turn,
My dreams still play against my honor.
The breast of winter has wishes to play accordance, But
I beg for summer daze.
I open my music box to hear sounds of relevance,
And quiver.