Morning, Again

A poem about devotion and long-term love.

I.
Now I see you
in our morning,
where the sun ombres
the beginning of the day
I see you with old
and new eyes,
honeydew sparkled
greying hair,
the worn lines of a warm face.
You bring me coffee,
our morning routine.
A simple act of devotion.
Now I see you
like never before.

II.
I have seen how it can be
how it was
and perhaps
how it always will be.
Why does that word (perhaps)
enter the fray,
soft and sharp as doubt?

Is truth a fleeting guest,
a restless beast, shifting weight
when we sit beside it?
What impermanence must we accept
when we commit?
And what, after all these years, remains?
Is love concealed
in a corner of the mind
waiting for us to grow into its shape?

III.
Still, I see you
in the morning.
All of you.
As the foxgloves tower,
dangerously swaying,
seeds emanating from
argumentative flowers

I know the intimate details
of your lesser-known life
the crack of your knee
my arthritic ankle
its echo.
The ever-changing terrain
of forms and fold
of curves and crest.

IV.
From the body of the body—
fruit clings delicately
to the wisdom of its tree.
Rooted, pelt-like skin,
nourished soil of your body.

From the mind of the mind—
memories drape carefully,
windowing your soul.
You remind me
I, too, am from the vine.

From the spirit of the spirit—
a light I did not at first see
yet have always known.
It flickers still,
Undemanding.

In these mornings
when I reach for your hand
it steadies mine.

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