An overgrown aloe plant
Threatens to topple headlong
From her too-small resting place.
Reaching, as she does,
Reaching her tendril-like fingers
To the sun,
She bends and leans against the dining room window.

For herself, the sun is a casual riser this morning.
Rusty peaches and plums streak the sky,
A line here and there standing out among the hazy morning.
Cloudy today, supposedly, but clear and bright in these early hours.

It looks cold out there,
even the sunrise tints her paintbrush with frost,
And the naked trees slash dramatically black against the increasingly pastel background.
No wind. The leaves are still.

I take this moment and secretly fold it behind my ear
To visit among the noise of the day
To breathe in like a cigarette,
out like a sigh.