pulled from a delicious lethargy
(that of course can only be found in this microcosm)
a blanket burrow, fibrous with polyamide and cotton
swaddled until that moment
when, marshaling all the breath of patience that abides,
bhudda-like, within that bubble
of stale but comforting air
a sweet but mewling timbre
that at first calmly coaxes, but quickly becomes
more and more urgent
when, with the demands of morning just below the slip of sunrise
(that orb also struggling to heft itself from soft but heavy restraints)
a hand, small fingers curled, stealth-be-damned-now, brazenly yanks
oh, the sear upon skin liberated to the gray of pre-dawn light!
that is when defeat becomes precursor to movement
wood meets toes with icy welcome
hands greet eyes with increasing vigor
hope fills nose and belly with the promise of that which occupies
kitchen cabinets and soon sizzling pans
(that those thoughts trump all else, now, is paramount)
when, legs scrambling for purchase on the counter-top
suddenly find place around hips and arms around neck
that no-longer tiny body, all limbs and curls,
plasters itself unabashedly to the form which birthed it
too long ago for comfort, but not long enough for the space of maturity
when, nestling a lanky head between the crook of chin and neck
(that last bastion of sleep’s warmth and afterglow)
mouth receives the repast from mother’s feeding fingers
(written 2 january 2019)