Plain Mornings Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

It is in the morning
Where the phrases
Cut your lips
That I keep little photographs
Of you:
Timorous,
Lavishly stretched on the bed,
The satiety of dreams
Left impressions on the bedposts,
Your pale face
Exuberant as the sunlight
Penetrates the windows -
Each arm of light
Landing perfectly
On your face;
The aesthetic of the deities.

You are the rose
To my garden,
Intricate marvel.
You are the gush of
The seas
Pallid, ashen
You are an agile wind
In the morose slumber
Of the russet autumn.
It is in plain mornings
Like this
That the storm tolls
Upon the sheathes in a rumble.
The trellis is shaken,
And the blossoming laughter
Of the consenting flowers
Is plucked from the
Reserved chortles of the
Garden’s obviously halted delight.

It is in plain mornings like this
That I fix my stern gaze at you.
It is in plain mornings like this
That I wish forever.