Tuesday, August 11, 2009


you tiptoe into our rooms
while the shadows still dream,
gently touching our hearts until
we roll over and open our eyes;
putting a finger to your lips,
you whisper, 'get up, sleepyhead,
i want you to see something.'

with our hands wrapped
around steaming cups, we sit
sidebyside on the lawn, comfortable
as only
soul friends can be,

watching the kitten stalk a butterfly
through the wildflower jungle,
softly laughing as the monarch
glides gracefully,
(so tantalizingly) just out of reach.

breaking off a piece of toast,
you pop it into our mouths,
and as it slowly incarnates
deep, so deep, within us,
we lean our heads
on your shoulder,
with a drowsy,
'thanks for everything.'

(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman

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