Kids at their whispers, the Devil's awake;
I wait for silence, as long as it takes,
Then rise to the sight of discarded flowers,
Surely missing their vase.


To breakfast, to puzzle it still . . .

Great God of the morning and all that is blessed!
I stand at my window, paying my respects
To a pigeon laid-out in a daffodil shroud,
Reborn as the Phoenix that soars.
© 2005 Gil Orms