The sun creeps sideways

through the narrow green slats,

caresses the bed with tapering fingers

that tickle my eyelids and

slip between my lashes.

Moth soft air sighs in

through the open windows, heady

with the scents of fresh cut grass,

a lot of flowers, unknown

tropical blossoms quiver

over high board fences, stucco walls

where cats survey their morning kingdoms

regal potentates in ebony robes,

stark against the blue white forenoon

charged with promise.

Hillary Bartholomew