good morning

In my dreams, now, I wake up like we used to.
New dawn light peering through seafoam blue
curtains,
bathing the room in a rich yellow green
like the crayola crayon always left, untouched, in the box
because there was never any use for such a shade.
I see the use now,
soft on your eyelashes, nose, bed-mussed hair.
From Target, I think, and they were on sale.

I usually wake before you, and play with
the day-or-two's worth of beard
making its presence known on your chin,
brushing off the morning sun from your cheeks.
My fingers linger in that warm spot
behind your ear.

I love that you keep your eyes closed to say good morning,
and how you smile, still mostly asleep, when I respond.
Sometimes you roll over and bury your nose
deep into the pillow, as if a bouquet of daisies
(the kind you picked for me once on the side of the highway)
and I wonder if you still smell them
if you close your eyes.
(I do).

I miss watching you act out the last few second of that dream
as a pirate, captain, or major league shortstop, about to
win the world series,
and the disuse in your voice when you force out a
one-syllable good morning.
("hi.")

But mostly I miss the half-light, stretching its legs and beating its chest
as it claims dominion over the shadows
on the contours of your face.
And how it never quite made it to that warm spot
behind your ear.
-12/02/2008