Thursday, October 31, 2013

Happiest (Poem 212)

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

Photo: Funky Junk Interiors*


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