You're still young. Someone curled an arm around you as you slept,
and upon awaking gently touched your face. The first sound you heard

today was a bird, a note of origin, before traffic. It's been years
since you thought the morning kind. Someone curled an arm around you

as you slept, and in the afternoon reached a hand toward you that you held,
simply. A note of origin, before traffic. Words you'd left behind rose

like birds to all they keep unto themselves. This is mine. Upon awaking
to that first sound, someone gently touched my face. This afternoon

I took his hand, simply, and reached across the words I'd left behind.
I'm still young. It's been years since I thought the morning kind.