Poet’s Corner – Times Seven

The morning’s light

convinces the leaf

on the top of the tallest tree

to stir and unfurl, a green page

opening to the beginning.


The rooftop

revealed inch by inch beneath

the slow crawling stripe of pale

eggshell, not so much a color as

an absence of dark.


The colors

reanimate in the room’s

waking as you turn back to skin

and blood from the paper of

story and the ink of dreams.


The night

climbs the weary staircase,

leaving shreds of shadows behind

the mailbox and the lamp post. Sleep

greets your closed eyes like an old

friend who never finished her story.

Top photo: Bigstock