Writing Prompt 13

Welcome to the thirteenth day of our 30/30!

You know what? You are amazing. Keep going.

Your prompt today is:

 

Write an aubade to yourself.

 

 

Image credit www.cliparts.co
Guidelines, if you want them:

  • Posting your response is not required
  • Feel free to post your response   🙂
  • This is not meant to be the perfect first draft – respond without hesitation for 5-7 minutes, then keep going if you want to
  • While our prompts are geared towards poetry, we welcome all kinds of artists
  • Tips & encouragement are here
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5 comments

  1. 30/30 Day 13

    morning song, an aubade

    look how she stirs
    with surprises
    her eyes open
    she squeezes to see
    this flashlight
    of a new rising

    she remembers how
    she placed herself
    she sees that sleep
    has moved her from a
    spot, carefully chosen

    her first thoughts
    are of me, grateful
    that i remained
    to see her wake
    into this day

    she moves again
    she takes the room
    outside, birds tell
    her about their day

    she knows that love
    kept one eye open
    a hand, resting while
    death slightly kissed

    knowing kisses will
    go deeper, longer until
    she stirs no more

    Liked by 1 person

  2. In the first flutter of consciousness
    I recognize you, the focus of my life.
    Early light barely there,
    birdsong still on the threshold,
    I touch skin, hair with the tenderness
    owed to the object of my love.
    Separated from you in the slumber of night,
    dreamscapes and unconsciousness our journey,
    I reunite with you and again find awe in awakening
    in the love, the light, the song of our breath.
    That immediate comfort and satisfaction
    is compromised by the growing realization that we must part,
    scurry off to the tasks of the day,
    renounce that homage, forego the sensual pleasure
    of simply being in and with each other.
    As the blush of dawn colors the sky,
    I merge with you, my dearest love, myself.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Beyond the lightning in the western sky
    there is the lightening, a subtle lifting of
    the night between us that stretches like
    some dusty velvet curtain, frayed and
    patched. Holes at midnight, the empty
    yowl of cats at 2 a.m. Nothing seamless.

    Pre-dawn comes through these windows
    I keep open for first greetings, creeps into
    five a.m. but reserves the rose glow of a
    still sunken sun for the eastern sky. Here
    is only the reflected light of lifting so that
    wraiths of trees become stretched arms

    and shapes begin to form against the wall
    of day. Ochres, grays, the deep browns of
    objects yet to be infused with light are part
    of this slow coming that I sense before I
    open my eyes. But my body knows, awakens
    slowly. Stretches to meet this becoming beauty.

    Liked by 1 person


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