Morning glory.
Not of words wasted,
or ideals abandoned.
But of a winter sun
clapping hands,
in atypical ambiance.
Heralding a new dawn,
the first to love the bones
and not the coins.
And I can see all of you,
from a distance.
A landscape, arising
from your touch.
Your lips touching mine,
just where the sun should be.
A Wandering Poet 