Slow lift, lightening monochrome,
roosters in the valley subdued,
and a dull, gossiping wind
ballasted with damp.
All the other mornings, the ridge opposite turned,
in a breath, sleepy green to gold,
sunlight’s angle set to catch the pressing hint
of autumn, like a brow swept brown
to draw the green from hazel eyes.
A car passes somewhere I cannot see,
biplane plays a rhythmic drone,
reminders that the world is real
outside the boundary of this little inn,
that I’ve been kept here
like a princess gazing at a bauble
and falling to a place where pigs
carry the pie plates,
and frogs play the violin.
This trudging sunrise reminds me, cushions the blow
that today vacation ends.