Sunday morning, white light through curtains
Illuminates a vista upon youth
A child waking in a quiet house
And finding sanctity in solitude.
It remains that soft-focus bedrooms
Dust-streaked air and nebulous quiet
Are a cradle for creative wanderings
Hatched weak and watery from dreams.
Yet adult vanity places value
Higher on poems, stories, miniatures made
With tools once held in much smaller hands
Employed on a monumental scale.