On Waking

Wake into
the tender rearrangement
of white morning sheets,

not like these springtime
birds, all chirrup
and delicate song. This

is an altogether
quieter thing,
though no less elegant,

the way that skin
touches skin
as you linger

in the soft gauze
of dream – walking
along the cobbled lane

of a Paris dawn,
through wooden carts
of heady flowers. 

What was it
you were searching
for?  Until

the softly
humming body
wakes the mind,

and a lover’s hand
delivers you to morning
on wave after wave

of surrender, naked
and singing
in the streets of Paris.

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