by Al Gabor

Outside the embers of night
are being fanned into day....
But I should get up,
my head is flaring
with things I must do:
work papers to deliver
bills to pay,
letters to write.

Yet I linger,
arrange myself
around the curve of your body,
your back against my chest,
my leg over yours,
both bent at the knee--
a dance step,
a leap.

I should be dressed,
ready to go.
But it's warm here
and somehow light.
I listen to you breathe
until my lungs fill in rhythm with yours,
every breath scented with your hair.

In the other room,
our daughters begin to stir.
They'll join us soon.
Our youngest starts her day
welcoming everything the light falls upon.
Baby, she says.
Turtle. Ball. Blanket.

These are the moments
when the faithful fall
to prayer.
I hold you closer,
slide my hand
over the curve
of your hip,
smell your hair one more time.

Lemon, I whisper.
Or maybe ginger.
The bumps of your spine.
Soft giggles in the next room.
Here is the unhidden heart of the day:
What the light reveals,
all flesh, all scent and sound.
Nothing I will do today
is as important as this lingering.