Land Of Morning Calm

A poem for weary risers, wives, and mothers who never sleep

Waking, nightmare tired,
an early daybreak.

Clack on the blinds- my cat smacks the window. My partner suggested we train him like Pavlov, but he has trained us.

A low purr of anxiety circles, finds, a comfortable spot in my chest.

The whine of the electric tea pot,
hot Tumeric and Ginger, down my esophagus.
All quiet,
should be the morning.

I press buttons for pleasure, to open; a gift delivered while sleeping, some creative delicacy worth reading or exploring with eyes half open

that may be slowly, silently, thoughtfully digested.

Alone, unseen, unaccountable to the world- a sign should hang on the door of my face- not yet open for business.
Wait for the sign to turn. I beg you.

There is no waiting,
The dragon rises at the scent of plunderers.
Cats, husband, children — all breakfast morsels; food for fire in my land of mourning calm.