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Aubade
There was no need
for Phoebus
to whisper in my ear when
the lark would do,
or the alarm, your way
of sighing as you turned,
the loudness of my dreams.
Rising, Phoebus wags his finger,
scolding our denial,
yet hopeful as a dog
sooner aware of day.
The dishes done,
the kids away,
our only charge was
to keep the sheets warm.
Nothing was to be done today.
We could just miss it entirely,
"X" it out on the calendar.
I reach for you blindly,
curled up and squinting.
The day has not begun yet.
We have all day to rise.
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