Dawn, and your throat still
thick with dreams, you stagger
through coffee, lunches, kisses–

smoothing each voyager
into place, before small voices
sweep the door shut, a final salvo
echoing down the drive.

You are left alone at last, with
jam on your fingers and
hours to ignite. Remember

the helpless bundle, the panic
as they placed it in your virgin arms;
the long drive home,
sure you’d kill it, accidental.

You thought this moment
would never come.

You draw the day
into fresh lungs– the morning
tasting of tangerine, butter,
eggs. Crack

the chalky shell,
pour slick gold into
a sizzling pan.

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Image Credit:FreeFoodPhotos.com
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Sharon Leigh has been writing since the alphabet told on itself. A self – confessed escapist, poetry is Leigh’s main vehicle of choice for avoiding that pile of bills on the counter. Her work has been published mainly online, with a few pieces included in print. She lives in Michigan with her four children and a moody parakeet.

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