Morning

You were asleep. I whispered 

good morning and sat there. 

The blinds at last were slitted open.

Usually you felt better protected

with them closed and all doors 

locked. Leaves had fallen red brown 

on the land's soft face. I whispered 

close to your ear. You moved 

a nudge apart from knowing 

I was there. Your hair, the color 

of early autumn grain looked young 

and matched your gentle smile I inferred 

from watching you likely dream. 

I wanted to join you there. Still early. 

I watched the moment surprise. 

You always rose ahead of me.

The home was full of imaginary flowers.

You were allergic to the real, perfuming 

blooms. I needed only one. I felt hyacinths. 

There was room for pursed tulips 

from a neighbor's yard. It took me a moment 

to remember you were not young. 

Soon frost would come. The lingering 

flowers and leaves still connected 

to stems and branches would cool 

and go away into the hush 

of some new winter outside.