The Day Was Late In Rising Poem by moon batchelder

the day was late in rising.
tarried long upon her bed.
had grey wool blankets
drawn around her body and her head.

was buried in a pillow made
of former season's dreams.
but wind and i would not relent,
and neither would the trees.

but called to her and seized the coverlets
'neath which she hid.
and wakened her tho she protested,
as i often did,

when mother wakened me for school.
for now we did the same.
i, with my incessant spells.
wind, by calling out her name.

the branches of the oak and bay,
by shaking her from lullabies.
til finally - she, yawning rose
up off her bed to stroll the skies.