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.
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
QuillsEdge Press 
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
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thank you, Esther, I love this one:)
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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.
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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.
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WOW! going back to read what I missed last weekend – this is stupendous
one more to love:)
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