The Stir

He sleeps beneath Sunday morning sheets Unaware that I have moved away from his side Into the early hours of "mine" Hair uncombed and on my third cup of coffee I usher in the waking day Sharing my morning with the poems in my head I left our bed but left him warm So I could empty my head of song and sentences that ride the carousel of my mind I check in on him between the pages of these gentle hours Pulling the covers up under his chin Before I begin to write again in the softened silence I know when he rises He'll pray, first and foremost Before preparing a plate of his own delicious words And all his nightingale stories, unheard, There, while we nested in the same shared space of sleep And thus, we shall to keep to our promise Of securing a stretched out Sunday Penciling in only the task of walking the dog, together, In the dampness of drizzling rain But for now I remain In the company of fresh brewed coffee Awaiting my sugar to stir from his sleep