Long ago I would come to her bedroom early in the morning
Her light would be on. The ceiling fan is turning.
She’s asleep.
There’s half a glass of cabernet on her nightstand.
She’s wearing only a cotton tee shirt.
The book she’d been reading is still propped open on her lap.
I would always turn out the light and lie down beside her
and listen to the sound of her breathing.
And now, though it’s many years later,
for me it will always be that same night
and that same hour of morning.
I stand on the street beneath her window looking up.
Through partially drawn shades, I can see her light still on
and the ceiling fan turning.
I close my eyes and listen for the sound of her breathing.
