The song of me rising from bed
is slow, deliberate, full
of thoughts and plans, an ache
or two, the remnants of a dream
elbowed aside like a twisted sheet.
There I am in the mirror, the woman,
the window, the tissue, the mint.
The day begins a song of its own.
Needlepoint wall pansies insist
I am closer to God in my garden
and meeting the sun. Here I am
bubble-headed, bare, slick and
round to the touch everywhere.
My song rises in the steam
of my own breath, in mist,
in moisture, absorbed in terrycloth,
patted, dried and puffed. I breathe
the fragrance myself and know it
and like it. My song sings the day
ahead. There I go again.