the sunrise teased my mind as

I slumbered under perfume scented sheets.

a window, curtains aside,

allowed the limbs of pines to peer in

and question me and ask of why and who and how and for-

the smallest of needles on their bows,

held motionless by the perfect throws,

no wind or rain, no bugs or birds,

just simmering light as they looked at me-

and then, in silent haste their attention

turned east to see the glorious seas of pinks

and blues and all sorts of hues,

as she returned to warm their day-

and move the air to rustle their branches and needles,

and enlighten the one behind the glass,

who slept no more under scented sheets

but was up, and out the door, and was gone-