When I make the bed it means I love you,
and we are okay.
You'll feel cared for and warm when you pull back
the sheet and sink yourself in.

When I make the bed it means I want you to know
I care about us even though it's easy to leave everything rag-a-muffin
as mom says,
"a heap of business."

It isn't my routine or my chore.

When I make the bed,
When you change the sheets.
It is our loving each other and preparing a bower
for dreams and whispers.

It doesn't cost a dime when we don't have a penny,
and when there's only popcorn for dinner,
I'm making our bed.

It isn't a question.
I am making it up neat,
With hospital corners,
Putting all that heap of business right again.

The PTO moms say,
"Food is love."
I don't doubt it.
But when there isn't milk,
I'm making our bed.

Sands of time,
remember when only moonlight flickered on the waves,
and the deer family roamed boundless?

You witness the  madness of our scaling up,
Our beach houses promulgating,
always getting bigger.

Thank you for your silent reminders.
Posession is a mirage,
a false contentment,
and is wiped away
as we always expected.

Meanwhile the yearning
of souls for perfection deafens.
And the ones with many lessons unlearned strut.

Each stretching their necks high
with a frantic quiver in their eye,
and a tranquilizer at hand.

The moon's red face stares down,
turning away.
And sands wait
for the coming of the tide.