I call this 
the wee hour 
the tiny time 
when man is
mouse and morning 
feels like a 
feline I dodging 
and ducking its 
heavy paws of 
daylight run away 
beneath blankets dark 
oh no not 
just a wee
bit more of
languid lovely laziness 
before I’m eaten 
by the sun 

Laying here before 
long past after 
just looking outside 
I wonder how 
long I’ll wait 
before I drag
these weary bones 
to the kitchen 
here is comfort 
there is cold 
and the quiet 
of rainy mountain 
mornings makes yawning 
and coffee hard
where’s that finger 
from old cartoons 
tickling my nose 
carrying me above 
the icy floors 
like I’m on
a magic carpet 

These words 
little stones
upon which 
I walk
some wet
and slippery
some coarse
but they
all lead
for those 
found behind 
have the 
footprints of 
thine eyes 

I was lost
now I’m found 
not by others 
they never came 
looking in this 
hide and seek 
but rather I
in the wood
behind the elm
under the ash
sitting there waiting 
my soul talking 
to my heart
making their plans

You can’t claim 
victim if you’re 
unwilling to stand 
any more than 
you can claim 
victory unwilling to 
fight the unwell 
can stay behind 
but the strong 
have an obligation 
take up arms 
mouth or sword 
or forever silent