My eyes flutter from black to color
I gently stretch as birds delight in my waking
The day is my clock
—I stay for no time keeps me
in a house of wood and grey aging forty.
I wait as silence tells me
what fortune it is to rest in the quiet
of an abode that stands alone,
only wooed by greens which climb, bear and flower,
perched high to face a hill where white cattle graze.

The color of sunrise is painted across my room
It fades where I brush bright pastels and faint aquarelle
I stick and pin where I could never before
canvasses to wash the dawn
drawn from my dreams and fresh stories
of faces that wake and make me.

I rise to the sound of my life's entry
My weight...