Sharing our warmth beneath
the heavy peacock-colored afghan
your grandmother crocheted, we rest.
I close my eyes so that, after a while,
when your gentle sighs fold themselves
into the welcome rhythm of slumber,
I can see your face, dearest to me
in all the world, and the almost-smile
that appears when we curl up together.
Tempted to slide across the rumpled
sheets, to tiptoe down our creaking
stairs and make myself useful (pitting
the rich, black cherries I washed
this morning, mixing up a crust for
your favorite pie, folding freshly-dried
towels with the jazz station humming
quietly) I shift my attention to my hands,
my toes, melting into the mattress
like a cat in the sun, and, finally,
meeting you where you dream,
waiting for me.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six