The sun is streaking through the windows bare
And falls across her on our early bed
She beckons me to lay beside her there
And breathing serves where words are never said
There’s coffee and vanilla in the air
A softness to her touch upon the spread
Her robe is careless tossed across the chair
A picture hanging of the day we wed
And with the silent Saturday, we dare
Not to protest, but join its hush, instead
