After a groggy, sullen morning splash,
still entangled in sleepís cozy tendrils,
baby stepping with no sense of panache
half under warming shroud of dream riddles,
I, with uncertain yet determined hand,
brew my dark ambrosia cup of sunlight.
Within my somnambulistic sandman
a tiny bell begins ring of delight.
At first a faint eager whisper of thirst
that, with exquisite initial sip blooms
into a deep warm mouth, throat and chest burst
through which sunlit adrenaline mushrooms.
The cock crows, the proverbial worm turns,
body and mind, once more, hungrily churns.