White plate with a gold rim. Thin slice of homemade bread
with warm dry skin crumbling and toasted.
Soft butter.
Honey crystallizing in the jar.
The flames in the gas fireplace
wavering silently
behind the glass.
Dampness from morning rainfall
layered on the windows.
Leaves on the trees
preparing to fall
glistening.
Sit down with me.
Boil a cup of tea.
Bite through the toast.
Stare into my eyes
or close yours
and remember being asleep.
I will be looking at you.
It’s not everyday I get to.
Think of the length of the rooms in this house.
Think of the christmas trees raised
in the living room
and taken down each year.
The family cheerful
and tired
loud
but whispering
because the snow outside
is still sleeping.
Picture this morning, again,
lived twice by everyone you can picture.
Remember last night.
The dim cafe
the air dropping down
on the pavement and sidewalks outside,
over the bike racks and pedestrians.
Imagine the muttering of the cafe again,
lived twice by everyone drinking steam inside.
The sound like carpet.
And this morning
everyone woke up
but those
who were gone before the night was.
And even they woke
in a sense
too.
Now sit down with me.
Enjoy the dripping leaves outside.
The crows cawing.
The colors somber
and the house warm.
This is not those nights
spent saving tears
for the drive home.
So close your eyes.
Let me look at you.
Bite through
and take small sips of steam.
Appreciate the matrimony
of night and morning,
be gracious to the tendrils of time and sunlight
that come your way caressingly.
The hours cathedrals.
Eyes the pews.
Take a seat
and let’s pretend
we’re young but old again.
Remember, and live twice
the falling and the waking
and the rubbing eyes and teeth brushing,
the water condensing in the air outside
and sliding down glossy leaves
and the warmth around us
the sweet honey on our tongues
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