Lazy Sunday Morning

Someone had a daydream a while ago,
I think it was me but it might have been you,
we woke up late on Sunday morning,
the sun shining in through
the southward-facing window of our bedroom,
sunshine pouring in like a golden rainbow
from the hands of a goddess.
(Remember how you teased me
about my poetic images?
But you loved them and asked for more.)

It’s been one year since that trip to Italy,
when we wed in that ancient Cathedral.
You said I was the rock
of the chapel walls–solid, reliable,
enduring for all time. Cool and timeless,
calming the restive fire of your spirit;
you pushed and pulled at
the walls of my character,
trying to find where they break,
but what you found was solid and real–
you feel safe, a powerful connection
with the temple of my heart.

Remember this?

I said you are the light that breaks through
the windows stained with yellow, violet, red–
Other women had tried
to shine their light inside me,
to illuminate the chapel within:
Many I gave pleasure,
but few I gave my love
and none rose above
my cultivated cynicism
until I saw your light shine through
our southward-facing window, the light of promise,
pregnant with the meaning that need not be spoken,
because we live its magic through each other.

Remember that mountain path
where we shared a kiss at sunset?
Its sweetness lingers still on my lips.
We sipped wine and made funny faces at each other
until you broke out in laughter,
violet wine dribbling down your chin.
I licked the wine, then kissed your lips again.

Remember this.

And on this lazy Sunday morning
whispers of skin on soft cotton
hug us close together,
innocent like two kittens in the sun.

I have written this poem,
now it is up to you
to say how this daydream comes true.


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