I see in Georgia the earth is asleep. With silk spider strings the cool of night hangs the early morning mist in light; silence calming all things that crawl and creep. The muddy milk of the dawn paints pastel shapes in kind hues on a peach tree grove, and dew drops drip from the leaves. A belle view from the simply warm southern alcove window under which I rest. Smells of honey- suckle drift in on winsome unseen drafts. I motion to taste the fragrance blindly, but awaken and smile-sigh to a laugh. No I've never been, only dreamt this place: eyes closed, between breaths -- inches from her face.
