Early morning poetry

Sometimes I get up early,
Twirl the idea of
Falling back asleep around in my head,
But end up on the couch writing poetry instead.
Its language of love captures my fingertips.
Pressing a key that slips
Letters in lines of verse.

Often by design,
Syllabic swells align
Like roses I bought on sale,
Beautiful, but slightly more frail
Than full-price strong-stemmed roses,
Smelling great to un-snobbed noses.