Is this the morning light I see?
She whispered in her slumber
her head she curled into her knees
her hair a flare of amber.
Back to her dreams she wished to run
and reach beyond the heat of sun
to a place from which unfold
fantastic tales to live and hold.
Is this the morning air I feel?
She stirred under the covers
her body sensed the breeze of trees
her skin began to shiver.
In maze of time she longed to run
fancy free and full of fun
in dreams of days which roll in spools
in visions lovely–not so cruel.
Is this the morning song I hear?
she sunk back into the pillow
sweet strain of harp from Paradise
still quivered soft and mellow.
She wrapped herself into the sheet
the whiteness of the Heavens
and found herself close to a dream—
but now it was past seven.
©Yakira Shimoni Fulks
May 24, 1998 | Olympia Fields, Illinois
Kira’s Art | Morning Song