HOURS

I hold the passing decades in our bodies

her hips rise above the dewed horizon

of our bed at 5:52 like a warm

sunrise over tasseled corn. I can’t think

of my rusted Harvester idle and cold

in the open shed; only of our years.

 

Morning doves sing in spidered eaves.

 

She turns stretching a naked profile

against antique curtains rippling

fragrant morning air. Honeysuckle

drifts back my boyhood nights,

blinking fireflies. Her body sways a beat,

then two, stirring slanted light, stirring time.

 

Tongues of fire, cardinals lick the dawn.

 

My wife slides back onto our bed

crawls across the years swaying her scent.

I breathe long strokes of her. “I want you

so deep inside me we’ll push the sun past

midnight.” Gliding through her depths, I let loose

the decades hold only the hours.

About left0089

Columnist at American News Report. Pain care activist. Poet, memoirist.
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