A Spring Morning
Your right hand and my left
hand, as if they were bodies
fitting together, face each other.
As if we were dancing. But
we are in bed. The thumb of your
hand touches my cheek. My head
feels the cool of the pillow.
Your profile, eye and ear and lip
asleep, has already gone
through the doorway of your dream.
The round-faced clock ticks on,
on the shelf in dawnlight.
Your hand has met mine,
but doesn’t feel my cheek is wet.
From the top of the oak
outside the window, the oriole
over and over repeats its
phrase, a question.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.