Grapefruit skies.

on the magic of an untouched summer morning.

The early bird, I am quite sure, 
craved not so simple a thing as the worm,
but the tiny joy of yawning awake with the earth.
Her curves dewy and fragrant,
they wait as she drapes herself in dapples of sun, 
coy and reaching for her lover
lost somewhere deep in grapefruit skies.
A place where all is empty and quiet, 
save for the sea flies
and the gulls,
and the bees,
all trying for a morsel of time alone in the world
before it becomes too much.

The early bird, I am quite sure,
knows that time smells different 
when the air is still untouched,
when sugar water awaits the hummingbird
and ripe strawberries dangle warm and full,
unbothered by eager fingers.
When the pine and the oak and the thistle
have taken in our humanness, 
thick with wanting and rushing,
and somehow softened us,
made us new again.
When a thousand tiny artists
held in the creases of a gently cupped palm
dance on notes of petrichor and night rain
and dare us;
go on, close your fist,
cling to a moment already gone,
miss the magic of it.