Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Breathe (08/19/10)
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TITLE: Morning Breath | Previous Challenge Entry
By
08/26/10 -
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The air still, the misty morning wrapping the meadow cool,
grass glistening, dandylions fuzzing.
Her cat shaking its paw, silently disgusted with dewy morning hunting grounds,
Whiskers twitching, hopelessly watching a faded grey field mouse running by.
Repugnant with teardrop deluges,
She lets the mouse live a bit longer for play, but with honor nose high,
Until the Sun, a savior, would beat like a charge drum drying the field for attack.
The cat turned to look at her mistress’s room window, silent, dark,
Coddled in soft morning and chintz curtains. The mistress slumbered.
The cat hastening across the morning cobblestones, mossy and cold,
Up the wood pile beneath the window’s glistening ivory sash protecting the cool quarters of sweet sleep.
Theglass pane misted over stands as guardian to a dry quilt warm breathy interior.
If rubbed one can see inside –
The mistress’s breath upon a cotton pink pillowcase.
A breath sweeter than the rose petals in a crystal vase on the sill waiting for morning light.
A breath passing through lips finer than butterfly’s wings or quiet crystal bells calling for tea.
Lips breathing outshone the sunflower wallpaper, golden and warm.
On the redwood nightstand, bedside, a bunch of heather, in a water filled mason jar, comfort to a travel-worn nose,
There on a daisy doily the cap on its back.
Nearby, the vanity mirror guarding its serfdom of old pictures,
A graceful foundation of wisdom and cherished memories.
Quilted feathers draping a body, breathing quietly.
Only imagined as Venus, Adonis or Artemus or the Madonna in slumber,
Or a nymph who daily wooded toils are rewarded with by peaceful sleep.
The sun breaks through upon brow and autumn hair.
Her eyes are gently closed to this silent vigil of pre-morning creation,
Closed to countless years of hate.
Her small fingers figuring by her visage half-covered by her quilt.
If one could be those fingers, so close to lips and breath, so full of quiet life,
Untainted by a gaunt and weary overworked world.
Oh to be elf upon the wrist of the mistress to glorify the presence of such beauty.
Her eyes open slowly and gaze at first upon the heather bow in the fruit jar.
With a soft smile she breaths a sigh of innocence awakening to the innocent.
Her eyes shine as God’s gift to her world.
They come more alive at the sight of the white rose at the misty window’s edge,
Dashed just so by the new morning sun.
Bringing final life to the room she quickened her breath and turned her head.
Silently and slowly, as if the Universal Architect had planned for that fraction of a second.
Her eyes turned from the rose to look at….
Her admirer, true to the last, yet so unfit for this gently scene,
But grateful from the first to share this fraction of a second of Life –
Her man standing still, in from a morning hunt, barely invited but standing watch over the sweetness,
dumb to the brilliance of the beauty he beheld.
Matching breath for breath without motion, and in true love,
They witness each other there in the quiet dawn of peace.
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