Saturday Morning Coffee

What would I do, my darling, without hope

of your smile?

Without the foresight you bring to each weary mile that I

walk, for six days in seven,

in getting to you,

my scant piece of heaven, fallen without hurt,

like a fledgling bird,

as soft and determined, your every

word to me

is beauty,

is sense,

is joy,

in a world where there seems

a thrum of white

noise that invades me, without ask or invite,

that wakes me too early, in yet dark, fearful

nights where your voice,

softly resonates,

calling me to Saturday morning’s grace:

calling: come sit

with the sun on your back,

calling:

stay,

I have all

the wonder

you have pined for

and lacked, in an arduous,

eternal week,  

spent counting and hiding

that which

your soul seeks,

come, 
now,

lean on me,

and hear only

the wind in these trees, 
inhale coffee

and vanilla

as the gentle breeze

wraps around us, melting present and past,

there is only this moment today:

let me

make you
laugh.