An ocean of sycamore
leaves is breaking
on my bedroom window,
here -- morning's last moan
as the minute hand
ticks up toward twelve.

At noontime, to "laze"
becomes to "languish,"
so, to keep appearances afloat,
I will write a poem.
Let no one think me languishy.

And, when I've squeezed
into Tuesday evening,
and we are saying "so long"
to Sybil, my sycamores
will sweetly swish till my return,
when they will suspirate me
once more to sleep.