These days I start my mornings in the Past
with you.
When the grayness before Dawn breaks through
my window,
when the trumpets of
the Morning call me into battle,
I resist.
Holding my eyes closed tight,
I retreat into my old half of the bed
And slide backwards, month on month,
until I hear myself
bustling in the kitchen,
grinding
coffee, making toast.
Or some mornings I am in the study,
ripping open mail,
scratching out checks.
Such a busy boy I am,
so eager to get on
with it.
You, not eager, curl up like a large cat.
You breathe the way a flower opens and closes
to the Sun
in a rhythm too slow
for me to notice
(unless
I change).
Carefully, I extend my arm and pull you in.
Because, I now believe,
you are dreaming
that I will, someday.
Such a day that would be, if
together,
we
held on to the last of Night.
And faced the Day,
together,
slowly.
Stealing these moments left unguarded,
I feel your warmth,
and
listen to myself rattle about,
until the smell of coffee wakes you.