Morning

Morning.

The flushed flesh of her chest,
Like mottled shades of cherry blossom.
Streaks of sunlight through parted curtains,
Strikes her hair with bronze and copper.
Stunted rhythm and low moans,
Like waves breaking upon her waking self.

Repeated action but novel passion,
Persistent devotion yet momentary motion.
The opposite of heavens and stars above,
Measured in hours yet felt for years,
This easy thing that we call love,
This easy love without the tears.