1
A bed needs making.
Muteness awaits words in flat
winter morning light.
Winter morning light
falls between ticks of a clock,
caught breaths before words.
Caught breaths before words
rumple winter morning light.
A bed needs making.
2
Scratched my back and wrote
a poem and made the bed.
The clock stopped ticking.
The clock stopped ticking.
The light abides, muteness too,
a word here and there.
A word here and there,
everywhere, ticks so soft, lost
in the tune between.
