This morning, curled around
the back side of you,
face against shoulder blade,
the smell of your warmth
mingling with my breath,
the familiarity moved me.
I wrote lines about it in my head,
though none return now as naturally
as they rose from the ashes of sleep.
The cat saw I was awake
and climbed my body
to haunch under my chin.
You roused, looked at me with narrow
sleepy eyes. My fingers slid along your arm.
“Hands cold,” you mumbled. I
pulled the covers to your shoulder and
caressed the parts of quilt now shaped like
you, but the dogs had heard us,
and they whined and pawed the crate door.
So I arose and set the day in motion,
took the dogs out, fed them,
opened the blinds, started coffee,
checked the weather, dressed.
Soon you are up, and thus we begin
another day we will live together. Granddaddy
used to say, “Everything gets over with.”
And I know this will too. One day.
But not today. This morning started
with the smell of you, and what will someday end
was today everything I could count on.
© 2021 Deborah E. Moore, All Rights Reserved
Published by Deb
Poet, essayist, novelist, writing instructor, music lover, and general optimist.
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