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Can we just
sit here
after
breakfast,
I mean,
just sit
here
for a while?
Time belongs
to us, now.
No demands
seems wrong,
somehow.
The morning
light
through the
kitchen window
plays
designs
and warmth
on the two of us
and the
round oak table.
Nothing
needs to be done,
immediately,
right away.
Time belongs
to us, now.
I come
barefoot
to the
breakfast table
so I reach
my toes
to my loves
knee
and she
rests her hand on them,
she knows.
Time belongs
to us, now.
I feel so
guilty
doing what I
want
for me.
Why?
I look
across the table
at my love
of more
than five
decades.
A reflection
of our years
and
struggles together,
answers.
Time belongs
to us, now.
Small
wonders
take up much
more space
than before.
Were they
always this important?
I think so.
A moment to
touch,
sun on the
sill,
a child’s
laughter,
the first
snow.
Time belongs
to us, now.
Rushed days
of our youth,
small
children
with open
mouths
like
demanding birds in a nest.
Gather and
feed.
Gather and
feed.
No time to
smell the roses.
It’s
almost over, now.
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