Your big black owl eyes will be the death of me
but I will turn strong against winds sent.

A bath of warmth to the infant
crying and bare.

Reassurance of morning melts into the walls of rooms small and locked.

The nuns across the hall are too excitable,
flowers fresh compliment the naked sense of purity
while I reminisce on days we spent tied up between feathered layers
cuffing our together breaths.