June Morning

Summer reaches her light-laden fingers

through the window, gently prying

my eyelids apart. She reaches in, stoking

the flame beneath the boiler driving thought.

I turn to the wall, hoping reflected darkness

will quench the flame. But the damage has

been done. Thoughts of undone chores

and potentialities overwhelm me.

Half an hour becomes three quarters. Then an

hour has past. The early riser disregards my need

for eight hours rest and my tardiness in retiring

the night before. She has defeated me in my fight

to sleep. I rise, prepare for the day,

knowing the devastation

she has wrought by lighting my room

at five fifteen in the morning.