Marching Dance

The hills in morning wake are still.
I read about the world in words
as coffee beans grind and crunch
in the pot upon the cold granite countertop,
and blue birds,
with their hurried wings and devil eyes,
fly above my sturdy roof.

Willow trees hang like friends
And shove away the sun, as I
read an adventure romance novel
upon a comfortable chipped-away bench,
and revel in the taste of jasmine green;
the tea leaves falling
onto page one hundred and three.

A splayed-out rose smiles in
the darkness of my backyard garden,
as I dance like a haunting ghost upstairs,
red wine in my lady hands,
and scribble poems and tales alike
upon my bed, white and blurry;
an angel dream.