Serving at the Pleasure of Another

The way dawn smells after an overnight shower –

waiting for rays
of morning
cardinal says
if you know who you are
you know what to do

Coffee, bare feet on sinking softness, the awareness of fleeting light. Kora refuses her food once again but still wants to go for a walk. We walk as hobbled beings, very aware of Silence as a character in this narrative. The other night, I saw the full moon over a marsh. The still waters looked like a crown with its cattail tines steering the eye towards a power I have yet to understand. A million nighttime creatures voicing in concert and yet, it all felt like silence.

Soon we will know the sound of footsteps in the snow and ice groaning. But that is not today. Today is

rosy-cheeked sedum
and a second blossoming
of hastas –
tell me again
how far we've come

After work, I enter through a door to a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes and the smell of rotting fruit. The dog happily barks and clickity-clacks her too-long nails across the vinyl floorboards. I settle my backpack, lunch bag and travel mug so that I can kneel to give pets and kisses. Kyle shouts, “welcome home” from the basement. I patter to my bedroom with heavy feet to shed my work clothes and collapse face down on the bed.

Essays in idleness, perhaps. Metaphor or code may be on the surface, but there are no fabrications here. At last I realize I am not an empress, yours or any other. You and I serve at the pleasure of another. I am here for that. Let's go to her.