Morning Lips

Through my gauzy curtains,
curtains decorated with unnecessary butterflies, 
I watch the dark blue become light. 

My tea is bitter this morning, 
without milk or honey.

The night loses its purple as
my mouth puckers with tannins.  

Washington’s sky is grey during winter days. 

The morning lips part. 
The green grass is briefly wet. 
My small lips tighten.

I pull a sweater over my pajamas,
waiting for the grey to flatten into 
something solid.