Days
When the sun rises
I open my eyes with a pop.
The bed is warm
with the history of night.
The sun blasts through the trees
as it always has. I'm high
among the lower branches of the canopy,
can see the squirrels and the birds at their lives,
intimate but ignorant
not knowing their languages.
It is not morning
until I hear your voice.
Copyright © Don Schaeffer | Year Posted 2013
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