Photo courtesy of NASA's image library
North Fork Sunday Morning
Outside, tall grasses wave around the fish pond.
From bed I see smoke rising
from the rattan chair on the patio.
Oh, I smile: it's the sun steaming up the damp gray cushions.I lie back, scissor my legs between crisp guest room sheets.
Strange—it sounds a lot like breathing—and suddenly
I miss the long feet that searched for mine
late weekend mornings in our old bed.I miss that broad still back, so close, a little blurred.
His warm foot reaches me at last.
Our ankle bones knock under tangled sheets—
A small quick pain.
