In the Sunroom
Love has a weight, and those cherished even more.
Sunlight is yearned for
but always just an hour out of reach.
The warmth curls around like a cushion
in my hermitage of light;
small things from small hands
scattered on the floor.
The walls illustrate the distance
and reflections dapple ghostly on the skin.
I see my other self there in a shiny pane
(bracketed in the mundane)
waiting for feathers to sprout along arms.
I have stared too much.
But my tea is waiting…
there beside my chair.
The steam curls around like a cushion.