Rik George writes

Spring Breakfast

In spring I breakfast with mourning doves. 
I remember their song from my childhood mornings. 
I wake un-rested from broken sleep. 
My knees remind me I’m growing old. 
Something grates in my elbows as well. 
My tea is bitter, my toast is tasteless. 
Sugar and butter sour my digestion. 
My eyes blear in the morning breeze 
that scatters iris petals on the deck. 
I force my fingers around my cup. 
The tea is hot and comforts them. 
I listen as doves grieve this morning. 
I chew my toast and sip at my tea. 
I’m glad my ears and teeth still work.

Une Tasse de Courage (Breakfast Tray) -- Constance Baltuck