Morning Triptych

1
A satin angel unfurls his wings,
interrupting the sky,
brushing a feather fringe
along the horizon.

As wings drift down
and begin to recurl
they fold, enfold,
like the cradle of a mother's arms.

2
When you lean over the bed
to kiss me goodbye
your face falls into wrinkles:
where I find softness,
where my lips merge with skin.

You are rueful about signs of age
but I find infinite forgiveness
in the smoosh of flesh;
the reassuring permanence
like the stone giants that rise from plains
and shape the land.

3
Our morning bower
is like a cell of honeycomb,
filled with amber light,
small nuzzlings,
and the vague recollection of honey,

till the grindlebear starts his rumblings
and urges us out in search of berries.