Aubade at half-past six on a cold winter morning

dawn

Dawn’s first light shivers
through half-opened blinds,
creating new patterns
on our old blanket.

The rise and fall of your chest
tethers me to the moment
tighter than the memory
of your warm embrace.

I get up anyway
and make the coffee.

An aubade is a morning love song when lovers part…this isn’t strictly an aubade, but it’ll do. I wanted to capture the ordinariness of a longtime marriage in the old blanket, the warmth of physical intimacy, the sacrifice of loving service. I’ll try a few more in the coming weeks.

in which Twitter inspires a poem

Heaven smells like
brown sugar and cinnamon,
Don’t you think?

And if it doesn’t,
what then?

It must smell like
fresh rain, then.
Or my grandmas’s kitchen
on a Saturday afternoon.

It could smell like a baby
after a warm bath,
part soap,
part lotion,
part angel.

Or firewood
on a cold night.

Salty air
at the beach.

A field of wildflowers
on a breezy day.

Heaven, I think,
will smell like home.

a break, and a found poem

I put my pen down
and took a walk
looked up
played with birds
who played with me
watched leaves fall
spoke to a squirrel
jumped in some leaves
followed the birds
from tree to tree
they led me where
I need to go

I ate pistachios
made some soup
tormented the dog
took a nap
in a hammock
smelled the flowers
played a song or two
sat on a swing
and picked up my pen

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