JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

runs through quilt, a finger

dipped in tallow, a midnight

conversation waxing, waning

 

by its flicker you write

by your pose I see you asleep

eyes closed, silent as cloud pillows

day departed breathing into dark

tomorrow yet an unborn glimmer

 

slipping beside you, I feel a page

turn, a pencil scrape, then slumber

overtakes me and in the morning

a sense of baking fills the air

 

fragrance of phrases and stanzas

warm from the oven of your night,

ingredients you gathered on walks

wild flowers, birdsong, flush of

fruit on bough, blessings

 

of seasons coming and going

all there upon your page, your fingers,

your smile, your golden hair

lighting my day until candlelight

claims us both back into its arms