Susan of the Morning

 

She sits in morning comfort, in his flannel shirt

Sipping softly, quite contently, jasmine tea.

 

She asks, what is it that you do?

He turns to smile, says nothing, continues to write her.

 

She has become this creature of beauty,

Watching her grow, blossom, becoming the poetry he sees in her.

 

This is the morning of all mornings, of all tomorrows

This is the morning we might find ourselves,

playing some game of personal desire, naked touches,

or nothing at all, simply being in this way.

 

And she watches him as the world spins into the great universe

The smallest of winds move branches against the house

Their home is like this, moving in unison with all matter.

 

And he continues to write

Speaking her name in the way she likes, in the way he knows

And in the way they both desire, their secret Susan of the morning

 

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