Oops

Sometimes I just like the way words fit together
The way that the clouds can suggest at the weather
But then suddenly I realize
I've written a poem about prostitution.

I wonder what Freud would say.
(Whatever. He was a bit of a quack, anyway.)

Good morning (with a hint of summer)

Oh morning,
I love you and your light, bright clearness,
The way the clouds scurry from your sun

Oh morning,
I love the way you creep toward nearness
The way the birds welcome you with song

The way your crisp winds waft so softly through my windowsill
Like a mother's fresh bread, beckoning her children to return

And so I return to you, each brand new day,
In an ancient, but eternally renewing way,
Oh morning.