Monday, April 20, 2015

A Spring Morning by May Swenson

A Spring Morning

Your right hand and my left
hand, as if they were bodies
fitting together, face each other.

As if we were dancing. But
we are in bed. The thumb of your
hand touches my cheek. My head

feels the cool of the pillow.
Your profile, eye and ear and lip
asleep, has already gone

through the doorway of your dream.
The round-faced clock ticks on,
on the shelf in dawnlight.

Your hand has met mine,
but doesn’t feel my cheek is wet.
From the top of the oak

outside the window, the oriole
over and over repeats its
phrase, a question.



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