Lady Grey Beckons

Soft blankets hug me in their vice grip.

I have no desire to leave my bed;

our home.

Only one thing can grasp me with her loving little hands and convince me to rise:

Lady Grey.

The thought of our meeting rolls me awkwardly out of bed and shuffles me into the shower

where things begin to brighten

and the edges of my vision sharpen.

I do not have long to indulge in my suburban sanctuary;

my little slice of domestic heaven

where no one can touch me,

talk to me, 

or take away the warmth of my misty cloak.

No one but lady Grey. 

Her airy voice leads me to the kitchen where we begin our meetings every morning.

She is much like her husband the Earl

but lighter;

fruitier.

She joins me in the yard where we sit in comfortable silence

and watch the sunrise. 

The oil painting sky is a gift I cannot share with my bed.

Only her. 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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