Her hands lay gently joined,
her breathing breaches a bedroom’s silence


clasped as one, in the very early morn,
her fingers in motion, wavering, *******
a violin instrument, an unseen youthful memory,
her internality rumbles with a quiet litany,
an indecipherable host of jumbled mumbles,
a cacophony accompaniment to her steady breathing

I, study her, as I have done so many mornings prior,
once more, capriciously slipping back inside/beside our bed,
to restart My Sunday morning quiet-like, for as is my wont,
have awoken with the morning dark, treading room to room,
filling my Winslow Homer’s Macintosh mug, with 19.7 fluid oz. of Jamaican beans freshly ground, an instigating odor, a fragrancy
most contradictory, soothing, nonetheless, a steadying, yet a
blaring wake-up call

She, clad inher new festive plaid pajama top,
a creamy fabric that begs for my I-dare-not stroke,
is easy prone and that,
pleases me, for I wish to bed beside her, letting her rest
till her mind texts her body, no more! or the mumbles
grow nagging onerous and stirring and when the disposition is
well-disposed,
she stirs too, after her fashion

with a dancer’s grace, her arm slowly rises, resting airborne,
fingers arrayed and balletic arranged, pointing upwards,
lingering until
the arm falls impromptu, sudden,
as a crescendo striking
her risen hip-mound, imitating a bell’s clapper,
and sleeps no more…

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Sun Jan 15 2022
in the wee daylight  hours