Every morning, we water the cats – let the flower petals burn,
until evening, dry and reaching; overflowing with summer.
The short hours of night often eclipse the daytime,
and leave us like vampires forced out of the dark.
A lifetime of doing and the hours to allow for such learning;
we put down the foundation blocks, make order and try to fit in the time.
I wake up to stories in the world, a light going on;
there is movement, and a promise.
I try to find sleep in the corner of my brain,
my fingers tick like the clock on the wall, counting the day.
The campfire smoke lingers in my hair, a weekend of being out of doors,
and I watch him closely while he stares at the fire, traveling.
We arrive home with salt and dirt in our hair; wash off our breathing shells,
and hold onto the presence of curious children, being reckless.
I think of how every morning you will be here, and I close my eyes
smiling, stroking the cat, and watching you move through the room.
All I can say, right now, is baby, and you rub my stomach and say yes,
and I say soon, and you say wait, and I say now.
An old flame sits in our living room, makes small references
to a time gone; we three laugh together, easily, at such changes.