Morning creeps in slowly,
clandestine, slipping through
the mouth of a gaping window

The cedar trees barely
stir from deep slumber;
the sun has yet to throw
his first ray

We linger among the
coming and going of
days for far too long
in silence

Have we begun to nurture
the other words for love?
(these should be spoken
gingerly, like sowing seedlings
of baby’s breath in early spring)