Peaceful

Just as the sun rises

on a Monday morning,

and that great sphere

illumines everything,

the birds talk in their

private and beautiful

language.

The dew glistens on

the leaves and the

grass.

The late night chill,

such as though it is,

lingers in the air.

And I, in my bed,

held gently by my sheets

and my angels,

drink it all in.

Savoring the luscious quiet,

the perfect peace,

the seduction of a new and

promising day.

Holding out against

the modern world,

until I am sucked into

its vicious clutches.

For now, my breathing

is easier and better

as I soak it all in.

Wanting to catch each

new bird's song

in the jar of my heart

and hold it there.

I daren't say a word

or make a sound

to crack the quiet

or disturb the air.

These are the gentle

and peaceful times

of our dreams.