Mourning doves outside
Singing to partners unknown
Echo in twilight

I've always enjoyed a good cup of coffee,
Which is why I've gotten really good at making it.
My slow solo morning sips,
It was the only time my coffee got the attention I believed it deserved.
But then you took your first sip of my coffee.
It was a slow sweet simple sip,
Yet my coffee seemed to find a place where it was truly meant to be enjoyed.

i spend a lot of money on flowers.

give me a minute to explain myself here:

every saturday morning i wake up early.
hours before work.
and most times, minutes before the sun rises.  
i’ll shower,
put a very small amount of effort into my appearance,
(because it is morning).
(because who really cares anyway).
and i’ll drive myself to the markets
that wait approximately four songs away from my house.

i won't be there for long.
(i am never there for long).

i’ll pick up some treats
for my dog (who was not thrilled with the early morning wake up)
as an apology for the interruption to her sleep.
and then i’ll carry myself to the buckets of flowers.

i’ll stand there and decide, for a few delicate moments.

i’ll ask him for ranunculus.
i’ll tell him that
i like the way they open,
and how delicate they are,
and how a single touch can have them falling apart.

he’ll agree
tell me that ‘softness is beautiful’
(this petal he gives for free)
and i’ll store that in my pocket until i need it.

i’ll think about how
i can not control much.
but i can control the flowers my vases hold.

so what i am trying to say is
i’d spend any amount of money to be able to hold something.
to be able to say,
“i chose this.”
instead of letting something be chosen for me.

Green figs in a bowl
and a chequered cloth,
I breakfast on birdsong

The early garden
brings a deeper peace
than any I have known
no sound but wind on leaves
no neighbours barking dog,
for even he must sleep,
his daily yappings not begun
new air, fresh and clean
whispers soft among the green
a drowsy yawning background hum
a space to sip one’s tea
and taste the morning yet to come

Harvesting all the blooms
the cherry red dahlias and sunlit marigolds and buds with hues of ambient mornings thinking of how it feels to touch the sunrise and upholster the wind to this couch
where a turbulent heart rate tends to rest

wondering if in all the laughter and friendship and years and years
of things to talk about, to hold onto
to catch distances in my hands
and rest them on my palms
with all the wonderful things you will do

I work in my garden growing mornings
ones I pray will bring upon a rain
that will shower on the places
where you happen to be
that will sink into your grounds
and give you everything you need
To flourish

The milk coffee skies of Paris in May,
make the Seine river look insanely gray.

At sunrise it’s quiet -
the traffic’s mostly bikes
our digs are luxurious and private
my school stress is waning - it’s nice

I want to get up sigh
I don’t want to get up,
We’ll vote on it later -
I think it’s a tossup.

What will today bring?
More thunderstorms and kisses?
grin I hope so.

I pull the covers up.
Peter stretches and asks,
“what are you doing?”

I chuckle, and say,
“Come and find me,”
when he does,
Paris is fun in May
.
.
songs for this:
How Deep is your love - Live at the MGM Grand by Bee Gees
Houdini by Dua Lipa
Disco Boots by Gavin Turik
Not My Fault by Reneé Rapp & Megan Thee Stallion

Waking early
breathing full the yellow summer air
to drink the quiet and take it to my bones
just me alone, with all the trees and calling birds
no other sound was ever heard, except the breeze
that rushing soulful little tease
who stirs the streams and shakes the grass
where hungry warming rabbits pass
to scratch and stretch and start their day
with hymns of questing honey bees
that drone above the meadow flowers,
and work away the dawning hours

Connemara morning early
iron grey sky
scarping waves
of sharp and tempered steel
and a sun barely creeping
on peaty bog
and marshy sheep-shod field
here dwelt the silent ones
fertile gods of Erin's clan
who fed the earth
and coaxed the land
solemn faces watch us still
through smoky mist
on emerald hill

a twisted stomach
chemical nervousness
this city heave     dawning