Sabbath Morning

So that you will know the darkness of flowers I will kiss your lips at first light. I will provide sweet morning rain. Because you must have poetry I will make breakfast pouring jasmine tea arranging what we both like onto sky blue plates. You should have music. I will call for Mozart's little bird. I will call the great hook beaked seafaring gulls to serenade these drowsy breaths. I will hum the small songs of sad street urchins for your kind fingers to silence. We will paint moon moths into butterflies, polish river rocks into crystals for love to see through. Slowly we will melt our butter. You will disappear as you come closer. Your hands ebbing from my shore. A strand etched with the driftwood of these ordinary revelations that pool into vision this Sabbath morning, and while blueberry muffins are cooking, we will pray in our own way.