5:30 Saturday 250616

Trying to coax
the little left of night
and spin it into healing sleep.

My body yearns
but a poet wants
to lift the curtain
peer fast at the mysteries
unfolding.

The caterpillar on the window,
green and yellow
rapacious beast who will
in a week
be a pale white prima ballerina.

The blackbird
unpacks his horn,
and I am way gone.
He blows a practice note
then a scale that thrills the air
and spills into pale blue.

Pytacantha
illuminates sapphire backlighting
with her honey scented
popcorn flowers.

In an hour bees will fiddle
and fuss as farmers
harvesting her bounty
but now she wafts
her perfume and her
pearlescent blooms for me
alone.

An early bird with red breast
seems intent on conversation.
I rub dew from a stone pedestal
and sit,.

Thinking mainly
of mist washed toes
and you,
of a head of dusty curls
that smell like apple blossoms
resting on my shoulder.

And tired grey eyes that smiled
goodnight forever.
Morning traffic wakes the world
and slumber will have to wait again
’till dark returns.

-Dave Kavanagh

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