Muted

The floor blurs the morning and gives her back to me,

blending cream and pastel wedges, softened edges

of a landscape far more wont to prick the skin.


The day begins not all at once,

but with a crescendo—she fills

the windowsills with the full-bodiedness of her hues.


In gossamers and dew, she pads to the panes,

and how willingly they drink her; I cannot help

but think her even more exquisite as she bends,


as refraction gently sends her sprawling to the ground.

She murmurs; avian calling fills the sound.


I greet her whispers over scrambled eggs and tea:

she’s heaven even when unleavened and diluted.


I loose my moorings and melt into her sea. Oh what linen-soft

simplicity of a universe, undisturbed and muted.

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