Why these tears? 

Why now, when all seems so right? Why should I feel weepy

when we're snug in bed, and it's Sunday? The day is ours.

I get up to make coffee, though it's still dark. It must be this weather, I'm heliotropic by nature. Too many gray days and I wither, and too many hours spent writing words last night. Wasted words, as it turned out. 

I don't know if the line between self-indulgent and worthwhile is broad or slim, whichever, I crossed it.

One for the bin.

I look at Terri's sleep-of-the-innocent with envy. That girl has a pure heart and a clear conscience.

If I look out the window I can almost see the ocean. EVERY time I look out the window I can almost see the ocean. Did I expect otherwise?

I need exercise.

I debate whether to jog to the park, or go to the gym. The pros for the park are that the sky looks clear, and the sun will finally shine. The single, ever-present con, is the dreaded hills.

Sunshine trumps. I have a cup of coffee, wash up, put on sweats, have a stretch, look in on babycakes, who is out like a light, probably dreaming of Jack, and off I go, or just about. I hesitate.

I need to write a poem for seminar, and last night's attempt was a bust. I tried to write about my parents, and it got too complicated. It proved too vast a subject. I need structure. It's so much easier when the form, haiku or sonnet or bop or triolet, is part of the assignment, but he gave us no parameters for this one. I need a frame, or my picture spills over. 

How about a mock heroic in iambic tetrameter?

This is my morning fantasy,

To make you cry in ecstasy.

I’d lift the sheet while you’re asleep,

And lie by you without a peep.

To wake, gently, I would bestow

A kiss upon your sweet below,

To rouse you from your dreamy state,

And this, I hope, would be my bait,

That you will yawn, and stretch, and say,

“What’s this? I see you want to play!”

I dare not think you’d say, “be gone!

Desist you wench! Come back at dawn!

‘Tis far too soon to thus partake,

Good grief, I'm only half awake!"

And I, poor girl, would quick reply,

"If so, I'm off to jog. Bye-bye."

“Too late! Come back! I am undone!

Away this lace, for you have won!”

Professor Eliot would sigh, as he does when I try my wit, dim as it is. But, he's always saying, "write about you what know."

It would be nice. I mean my little fantasy. Maybe the park and poem can wait.