I'm the three minutes
where the
sun is lifting the sheets
and crawling into
bed-
the subtle exhale,
a strip of green,
the squinting of
eyes
when she's pulling the
covers over
her
head,
the three minutes
where she cannot fight
the sleep but
her quiet slumber
her burst of color
her repetitive-day-in-and-day-out
behavior
is the romance of tucking in
linen and
allowing herself
to fade and saturate
again