Her hands lay gently joined,
her breathing breaching the fortress of a bedroom’s silence

clasped as one, in the very early morn,
her fingers move in motion, wavering, *******
recalling 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 quietude of 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 my in-her 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
grow nagging onerous and stirring and when her disposition is
well-disposed,  she stirs too,
after her fashion

with a dancer’s grace, her arm slowly rises, resting airborne,
fingers arrayed, splayed and Balanchine arranged, (1)
pointing upwards,
lingering until
the arm falls impromptu, sudden,
as a crescendo striking an apex,
her risen hip-mound,
imitating a bell’s clapper woke reverb,
and she sleeps no more…

<>

Sun Jan 15 2022
in the wee daylight  hours

My fingers don't fit
Clasped between my own fingers.
Someone else's must rest there.
I need someone else's fingers
To reach between my own.
Mine don't fit.