This morning at four, or nearly four
I find myself untied, unlaced, unlashed;
I find I find myself unlatched, or nearly so.
Today the morning soars but I, unwinged,
do not wheel. No. Nor, to be fair, do I
show a singular or even single care
to be aloft. I have no preference for air;
prefer, instead, the confines of covers,
the soft of a lover’s thigh, the rounded
comfort of groundedness beside her,
the warmth of comforters and her smile,
while all else seeks to fly away.
Posted for this week’s prompt, “Nest“, at ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION