Saturday, August 12, 2017

Sunday

It's very early Sunday morning.
Around me the city begins to stir
in the first pale glimmer of spring.
Your father is still in bed
trying to sleep away his broken heart.

You are all around me here -
hazy drift of breath on the chill air,
lavender wreaths of cloud,
trailed across the sky,
the distant woosh of traffic.

Geese cry as they wing
high above the slumbering rooftops.
Another day -
too beautiful for you not to be in it.

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