Sleeping Late

This almost never happens,
but it did today.
I awoke to a bedroom
bathed in sunlight.
Machines whirred far then close
Trimming the lawn
across the street.
Thuds echoed a signal,
unseen men hammered
On distant roofs,
And the breeze nudging at the curtain
carried a light smell of summer tar.

A commotion of voices outside—
Kestrels chirruped
from perches
on the phone wires,
like children feeling summer,
chasing after a baseball,
delighted to be out of school.



About the Poet:
Christine Jackson teaches literature and creative writing at a South Florida university. That is, she is supposed to teach but probably learns more from her students than they do from her. She presents creative writing workshops to local writing communities and plays jazz piano.


Photo by Nikola Pešková.


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