Well, I do prefer Bach or Debussy, but…
Sunday, January
Copper leaves still litter the trees
and your copper eyes still litter my mind.
Outside, I can see the small bit of mercury
huddle upon itself tightly,
slightly obscured by the first traces of snow.
The neighbor has taken up her cello
and, muffled, I hear her play Mozart.
The moment, the snow, the strings, all pure
and I want to take a hammer to these walls
holding in a comfortable seventy-two degrees
and tear them away
so the snow and the notes can swirl around me.
Against my side, you stir,
rub your eyes, look at the clock,
ask what I want to do for dinner.
I look at the pile of dishes I’ve put off,
kiss you lightly, and suggest we go for Italian.