In Morning


She wakes framed by his arms and edges
of old sheets: strained white linen
long ago hauled from cedar. Languid
her husband curls close by her hip,
while her eyes remain fixed
on the photo of a girl wrapped
in white satin. She is stillness,
a vessel filled with fresh picked
cherries waiting beneath
the June sun.


No Comments, Comment or Ping

Reply to “In Morning”