tickling toes
the morning after
too cold outside the duvet
for July
the hands in silence
summon silly words about

velvet commonplaces and
a pair of sandals
to begin
the crawl outside the duvet
a race of toddlers
for the bath

breakfast in
a calm of whispers
the day will fold its journey
to the night
(if only took this
longer to reveal)
the whim of longing
where no company would do

air in larger windings and
a solitude on
the softer wing of nature
again exposed
to the night

The End

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