The cold of morning, dawning,
Yawning through the window;
Not slowly, but swiftly, splaying
Across the picture with a faintness of blush.

Orange and yellow, purple and pink,
And blue and white, and a whisper of night.
The cold is moist like a film that clings
To my skin.

But it's warm.
And I don't feel hungry any more.
And my throat isn't dry.

A golden glory of a promising
Summer parades through the shanty of evanescent mist.
I'm bathed and basking
In its wholesome embrace.
It melts the skin on my face.

I now think I could sit here for hours,
Meditating.
I should sit straight. But I can't.
My back hunches back over as the strain tells.

I wish now he were here around me......
His tall frame.... and his broad shoulders,
And with his solid chest surround me....
And sit with me.

Then I see an image in the street and I think I could do without him.
Without them in general.
But then I think of him, and I don't want to.