Lying in bed on Sunday morning like two
sleepy spoons, I awake to robins
dredging the grass.
Why don't they sleep in?
Our baby cries waking my wife again —
an adorable alarm clock.
As she pecks her head in the crib
I go to prepare the tea.
An extra dab of honey for her and
why not,
some more for me.
Sunday morning
A morning poem
