She brings my morning in a steaming cup,
i reach for glasses to watch her beautiful retreat.
Listening now, to her ritual, the bumps and clinks,
the littles knocks and splashes,
i cannot recall when the shower knobs didn't squeek.
Fumbling for the pen to write this down, i hear her,
humming above the drum of water, and wonder,
What kind of women sings the rising sun?
It has been this way for twenty-five years.
Her raising the sun for me, parting curtains for me,
opening the windows i keep painting stuck.
Me, marveling at her frightful power to direct a scene,
adjust the light, rewrite the script.
She navigates the furnitue of me and never misses a line.
It seems quite a long time to live with a woman
and still feel the tingle and jolt of novelty.
But it occurs to me now that it is what i know of her
that makes me love.
And what i cannot understand that makes me stay.
~

love how you capture the warm, tender domestic scene. In my world that capturing seems absent, so it makes me especially like it when you and others write it. I couldn't help but smile at the "opening the windows I keep painting stuck". Lovely poem fallon. ~ audee
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oh, this warms my heart...she is so blessed to have you write so about her...a beautiful love...m.e.
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I love this, fallon. I love the way you paint your love for your wife, on the canvas of my soul. She must be so enchanted by your poetry, written for her. I love the line "what kind of woman sings the rising sun", and the vision of you watching her, listening to her, writing about her is enormously touching to my heart-strings. Beautiful poem. R.J.G.
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A lovely poem fallon. The imagery and sentiment are wonderful. You have a lucky wife-but then she has a lucky husband. Jane
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very lovely poem fallon...ms
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and very lovely comments, thanks...f