steady as she goes

~ Pleasant Street

the morning upturns me
the edges of stratus clouds
the colors of harvest
streaks of apricot
and cranberry like her lips

we were never intended
for longevity and constancy
our weave was not threaded
with such riches
each uncharted day we had

but when I rise
after sleep eludes me
to watch the splitting of the sky
and the day’s first rays
my feet are reminded
that was not my path to walk

Published by Pleasant Street

Pleasant Street appears to be stuck in 1948, via a time-machine of her own design. Around these parts people call her Rose. She is a moody poet and a frustrated writer of stories. Movie lover. Cake eater. Bread baker. She is still trying to figure out a way to use baked goods as currency.

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