Hearing

Most mornings I awake thinking
of you sleeping, breathing
rhythmically as a metronome,
the bass beneath a melody,
eyelids closed moons, eyebrows
two hovering clouds
above the day yet to unfold.

I imagine you embarking
into consciousness: they say the last
sense before death is hearing
but isn't it too the first before life, hearing
an alarm, or if you're lucky
in the spring finches whose yellow
or red breast feathers might grace
the pine needles just outside the window
or when I was lucky, your rhythm.
Maybe your brow lightly purses, or a sigh
escapes like air being let from a dream balloon
before you open fully to the light.
The music changes in your breath
at least, that's how I remember hearing it
though you don't play that tune
for me anymore.

Most mornings I awake with words
that might be poems on my lips
rather than kisses on your cheekbones

Maybe it's scent that's last to go
cinnamon, or vanilla, or you


...........


edit: original post 3.16.13.
posted to imaginary garden with real toads June 17 Open Links