Poem: It Was Six in the Morning

[the_failed_poet]

Poem 3 in the "my reposting from my poetry blog" series.

It Was Six In The Morning

It was six in the morning and all was silent--
Night had just ended and summer was gone.
It was six in the morning, she hadn’t yet woken,
and I did not feel it was time to move on.

It was half after six and the morning still glistened.
My arm was quite numb from the weight of her bones.
I knew if I moved that she'd wake, so I didn't.
I was in no mood to spend this day alone.

It was ten after seven and light bored right through me.
The sheets were still twisted around as we lay.
She thought she would leave as soon as she wakened,
but I was still hoping for doubt and delay.

It was eight in the morning and she began stirring.
I was still silent, and still as the dead.
It was eight in the morning when her eyes first opened.
I pressed a small kiss on the top of her head.

It was eight and a quarter, and she took a shower.
Her steps were a mix of delay and of haste.
I lay there and listened, intent, to the water.
I hoped there was still some time to waste.

It's nine in the morning; she's out of the shower.
I beg with my eyes for her to remain.
She smiles a little and then acquiesces.
I think it will all turn out well, in the main.