Before the Alarm

Dawn breaks through the morning glass,

an unwelcome intruder,

golden light tickling my eyelids.

I want to brush her off,

to laze in the hazy quiet before the alarms.

In this half-life space, my pillows are clouds,

and my blanket is the whole of the earth,

swaddling me like an infant,

where nothing aches, and nothing asks.

The breeze from the fan brushes my hair

as it hums a tender lullaby

that was written just for me,

and as my eyelids close I can touch the hem

of my dreams,

stitched together with copper thread.

Walls woven with my mother's hugs,

My father's laughter,

My daughter's singing, sliding down rainbows,

playing catch with shooting stars.

I am kissed by the sweet sticky scent of cinnamon rolls,

fresh coffee, and woodsy stacks of books.

Salted air pours itself through open windows

carrying the welcome hush of the waving sea.

I can almost pinch the aquamarine of it

between my fingers.

BEEP! BUZZ! RING!

The alarm yanks me upwards

with corporate, expected, force.

I sigh,

rising to the gray of the same day mundane

that we chased after so briskly in our youth.

Now the grass is only greener when I sleep.