The lifting gray is just a trick of light,
my love. It’s really not so close to dawn.
It’s all the flurries in the air tonight
that settle in a blanket on the lawn.
The trashmen’s racket? They’re on early shift,
the paper guy, too, slaps your step ahead
of time. We woke too early – that’s a gift
for us – let’s re-create last night in bed.
Don’t rise to check the time! All right, it’s six
o’clock – I lied. I only wished to squeeze
another hour from our tryst; my tricks
were just to keep you home a while. So please
consider us, enquilted, nude and warm.
With snow outside, we’ll make a private storm.

02/06/2012

Author's Note: First published in The Lyric, 2010.

Posted on 02/07/2012
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