The end of my limb grasps
the opener of the gate
and slowly turns the helve.
The gate to the mind of the one who slumbers.
The chamber is of twilight,
except the ball of fire is to the right of north.
Gradual and leisurely are my paws placed on the fabric ground,
meant not to wake the one in the land of visions.
The dwelling of the one who lie was thick with dawn exhalation,
yet the space was warm in expression.
Obscured was the one on the field of cloaks,
to point that there was only a hump,
not of flesh,
only that of fluff of veils.
The mane of the one of nocturnal musings
concealed the countenance of her,
but it was one of languid repose.
Images swayed in dame’s mind’s eye,
Aloft the lass was I,
my employment was to rouse the miss.
To prime her for a day she was not quite ready for.
The maiden had perception of my attendance
and to consciousness she came hither.
An inhale in tandem with a stretch of the appendages
was the sign she gave.
Her mahogany gaze turned to my locus,
no sentiment to either end was the stare.
I woke my sister up.