The old man always wakes up first. In the half-light, he idly scratches red marks left by wrinkled bedding and performs his morning ritual.
Touching, rubbing, feeling, he assures himself that no vital part has disappeared during the night.
Finally, satisfied that everything is in its proper place, he yawns the dark from his lungs, inhales the morning, and, as a neighbor's dog barks the sun up, begins his next ritual of wakening his wife.
Hi Adelle, I read your poem,"Morning" I found it a fun read. Reminds me of me in the mornings. Best of luck with your writing. Please feel free to visit my site here in the "Den"
Mary Angela Nangini's poems celebrate the richness of life and love. From the city to cottage-country and the roads in between, Nangini explores the changing seasons of her varied region. (This book will soon be reprinted in hard cover.)
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Sheila