Aubade

A bee moves back and forth,
weaving our names into

the early morning sunlight settled
on the window sill. Material light,

silken or liquid in its movement
reveals small dust swirls in the air,

left over conversations of your skin
to mine.

After making love we sleep,
a momentary death

where we join all our dead.
But unlike them in their dark beds

we wake once more, together
in the late morning’s

yellowed ivory light.

Blossoming

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