(Published in Havik’s 2024 “Exomorphosis” Poetry anthology)
My husband still asleep, I tiptoe downstairs
to the kitchen, slip past a pot soaking in the sink,
promise myself—for a second day—
that I’ll wash it, inch past cupboards
harboring nicks from fevered pandemic cooking,
slide my hand across the granite countertop
littered with recipe books and a bottle
of balsamic I should put away.
I slink past the glass breakfast table
as clean and pristine as the bay window,
the only true clean space in the kitchen—
plan to sit here and ponder deep thoughts,
approach the window and welcome
the faint morning light of daybreak.
I gaze through the glass and my breath
forms a small circular cloud on the cool
windowpane. I press my fingers
against the white windowsill, catch my breath
and behold, through quenching arcs of water
sprayed from automatic sprinklers,
the wonder of our backyard––
The branches of our Japanese maple
reaching toward the sky, honeysuckle
clinging to the cedar fence, African daisies
opening slightly though not yet woken, lavender
tipping with fragrant flowers, a nectarine tree
promising to bear fruit (as it does every year
without fruition), mint overflowing
a flowerpot, oregano, chives and basil
sprouting and spreading in a corner
section of the backyard by the compost bin.
I don’t want to waken anyone.
I’ve left my hearing aids upstairs.
I crave a quiet cup of tea …
Our dog nudges me from behind,
a black Labrador with an hourglass
of white on her chest, begging for breakfast
as if she’s been awake the whole time,
waiting for me to rise.
