Dirty Feet

The day breaks, into shards of sky,
and half awake I swear you've sprouted sheets within your very soul;
an extension on your limbs and light so dim grows golden in the
shattered sun while you recollect the day I was afraid of birds.
You pressed your arms so tightly to your side until the fear,
irrational, of flapping wings,
could lovingly subside.

Your body bent, and sterling silver,
is a picture frame that's sent to dazzle us with blinding repurcussions.
My dirty feet endure your scorn, demure
I sit cross legged and wonder at the clutter in this room.
Cluttered thoughts are cluttered floors,
but you don't mind
and lazily refuse to do your share of chores.

My dirty feet endure your scorn.
Two hundred forty three; cooling count
from when I stir you with a cup of tea.