Through warming panes,
on ageing doors,
the morning glows,
separating faces from backgrounds
and favoring the vivid and the brave.

Split through bamboo blinds
and softened by the presence of plants
on a windowsill,
as bugs begin their work
and I take my time to admire them,
spring's cold mornings and warm noons
provide the theme
for another chance at life.

A lone and slender tree
passes shapes to a garden wall,
where ivy climbs with the usual goal,
and the broken red brick it relies on
lends texture to the scene.

The unforgettable scent of lavender
rides the breeze
to reach far beyond the garden,
where a miniature world exists
for its own purposes
and not for those of humanity.

Arching across the gate,
like reaching hands,
a family of vines grow, patiently,
towards the low morning sun.
Just beyond the wall,
oranges grow in rows
and the ocean's quiet vocal can be heard
by those who listen;
quiet but sure.

And farther down the lane,
the village wakes itself to home-made bread
and classical tones,
and I breathe it in for tomorrow's reflection.