The flight from one dream
to another
floats lightly and cozily as fresh laundry pinned to lines in Texas spring.

My clip fan caresses me to a state of gradually increasing consciousness 
with the gentleness of a moth's flutter,
not with the same heavy-handedness of a plumber that 8 A.M.'s weekday alarm regularly inflicts. 

I mock the clock's self-righteously blinking "7:05 A.M." sermon
by adjusting my pillow and applying extra layers of cover,
further cocooning myself
from frigid fall drafts now boldly bleeding 
through my abode's every gap and sliver. 

The frozen fog, smoggy smells, treacherous traffic, countless and callous cacophonies, and pressured politeness,
for this one moment, 
in this minute,
and on this morning in time,
are some other's soles' tedious path to trek
and some other soul's dilemmas with which to contend.

I smugly mocked its wretched winking
whilst perching incessantly, 
well after I'd "answered nature's call."
For, I binged every cat video to see,
out of the pure joy I had nowhere, in particular,
to be. 

For, Saturday morning is a healing, permeable, and soothing haze--
an environment conducive of the most lackadaisical kinds of self-debates,
such as, which one is better--lavender versus chamomile? 

It was the latter flavored tea I soothingly sipped,
while relishing the afforded joy of my enclosed and boroughed safe haven and camouflaged corner of the world--
the simplest, and yet, rarely experienced, delight of pure, unadulterated, and uninhibited free thought.

It's a streaming and crystal flow, unpolluted by e-mails, conference calls, kiddy squeals, what time it is, and wherever you gotta be.

It's the tranquil trickle one can now hear
without the world in their ear, 
of those "real super duper" important ponderances, such as:

If the sun is so hot, why is space so cold?

What would happen if everyone on Earth clapped all at the same time?

What do dogs hear when we talk?

How long could one survive in space without a suit?

Let me check all the birthdays in my calendar for this month.

I should randomly text Sis good morning and that I love her--
those pristine, effervescent, waffling, and whimsical thoughts
The World is desperately attempting to murder.

It was the latter flavored tea I soothingly sipped,
when those very same catering currents
landed me from this conscious dream back to the lay-seas.

This is our safe space
no form of The World's murder can penetrate. 

On this morning, The Golden Goose's plan is now, 
unapologetically, in effect, regardless of whether the world deems it fit.

Embracing Sat. mornings means refusing to cut yourself open.

Fear not ever to pair ice cream with bagels.  

From the Soul,

📕“Saturday Morning (Poem)” is a piece from my upcoming published anthology, “Return from the Pale Trail: Gifts to Humanity We’ve Been Taught to Forget.” I’m ecstatic to share this wonderful piece of literature with the family. I hope you all enjoy. Until then, feel free to check out my other published materials.