the waking mind slides gently into place,
a distant ante room - shows one arrived
who hands to me a tray of half made thoughts
that nestle close with velvet shells.
Slow awareness forms a shape
as birdsong drifts on half-lit air.
the sense of bed will enter low,
for warmth and comfort permeate
my fuddled thinking, making ranks
of proper things, that uninvited to my head; inflate.
Another murmmers close beside 'can you see,
is that a cobweb or a play of morning light?