Or “Mourning Person.” A poem by Doug Muder, 2006.
These days I start my mornings in the Past
When the grayness before Dawn breaks through my window,
when the trumpets of the Morning call me into battle,
Holding my eyes closed tight,
I retreat into my old half of the bed
And slide backwards, month on month,
until I hear myself bustling in the kitchen,
grinding coffee, making toast.
Or some mornings I am in the study,
ripping open mail, scratching out checks.
Such a busy boy I am,
so eager to get on with it.
You, not eager, curl up like a large cat.
You breathe the way a flower opens and closes to the Sun
in a rhythm too slow for me to notice
(unless I change).
Carefully, I extend my arm and pull you in.
Because, I now believe,
you are dreaming that I will, someday.
Such a day that would be, if
we held on to the last of Night.
And faced the Day,
Stealing these moments left unguarded,
I feel your warmth,
and listen to myself rattle about,
until the smell of coffee wakes you.