new

We sit on the small veranda of our first, common home.

We drink wine, beer, water.

We eat our dinner, laugh, kiss, talk.

The seeds we planted last year in our garden have begun to sprout.

They will bloom this year.

We take in deep breaths

of basils and frangipani

and give deep hugs

and share the news of days past.

 

We talk all night, in low voices, in whispers, slowly.

Late in the morning

fatigue is sweet and tender.

Peacefully you go to sleep.

And I make coffee and go to my desk.

I have poems to write.

Poems have to be written.

I hold the pen

looking for words

a first word, something

anything.

The room is silent.

The table is silent.

The chair is silent.

The paper remains blank. (I am empty.)

The paper remains blank. (I am full.)

I turn off the light.

I snuggle in our bed.

"Poems will not be written”, I happily declare.

And go to sleep

quietly.