routine

Sometime during the night

the dog will sigh

and rearrange himself

on the rug beside the bed

and I will waken and be thankful

for the window you left open,

the icy air and the ballast of warm blanket.

I will turn then, 

heavy with sleep, 

drawn homeward by the whispered fluting of your breath.

Our arms will lace,

our hands entwine,

a tangle of belief.

 

Writing poetry this month along with NaPoWriMo .