the morning crier

It’s 4 a.m. and Robin Redbreast
              scrapes nails over chalkboard  
                              Sól lights her pine-fed torch
                                              stabs bloody fingers deep in earth
I play possum to your prod
               shun the unwashed kiss
                              oak floor groans with your retreat
                                             a williwaw births new gooseflesh
It’s 5 a.m. and Robin Redbreast
              plays tug-o-war with nature’s plow
                              fairly caught in lusty writhing
                                              to seed cocoon with eggs and sperm
I slide quivering toes
               ‘cross tangled flannel sheets
                              sticky scent muzzles my nose
                                            fingers of aftershave close my throat
It’s 6 a.m. and Robin Redbreast
               stills fledgling cries with worms and seeds
                                       an eggshell silence fills warming air
                                                      nest hardens 'neath Sól’s watchful gaze
I creep slowly past
               our cast-off socks and empty cans
                                the coffee pot gurgle carries a sour bite
                                               that stays our anxious, seeking hands