by Robert M. Topp
Sunday papers spread out on the bed.
I pour her Kona roast. She kisses my head.
The birds call out their sweet songs
Coaxing the sun into this sleepy dawn.
Translucent buds sprouting from old limbs
Filtering the sun across the windowsill.
The wind blows softly. I wrinkle up the covers.
Shadows dance on the walls like unrestrained lovers.
Springtime is here. The north wind has been tamed.
Azaleas burst forth into a fiery, crimson-flame.
Oak trees sparkle in a multitude of greens.
End over end, like gymnasts, fall the wintry leaves.
We fight over sections that we both want to read.
I always give in. You give my hand a squeeze.
I peer across to you. I've a smile I cannot hide.
I open up my heart and take all of you inside.