We decide again to wake up early.
We want to spend the first hour
of our days intentionally, toward goals,
with a pen. I hear you awake, writing.
I choose to stay in bed, for the second
morning in a row. First,
I was exhausted. Then,
I was listening to birdsong
and your sweet scratches
in the other room,
your yawns.
Making
this poem,
letting
the rest
rest.
My husband asked me please not to leave washcloths in the sink
and I said, sorry, I thought that was him.
I asked my husband for a can of soup
and he also made me a grilled cheese sandwich.
I have a good little heart.
I make the best of it with you.
The heart is a lonely hunter.
How cruel it is born
a poor hunter.
It starts without skill
and bad tracking instincts.
Insists on trapping
when it should hold,
loosely.
Approach gently.
