The Quiet

Rising before the sun
I leave the bed softly,
my beshert unstirred,
then tread across our slate-blue
Spanish floor, it’s breathe
unseen in the dark.

Every day yields thin sheets of
happiness, to be separated,
and held lightly by their bequests.

And the hour before dawn is
a silk jacket, if you chose to
extend your arms.

I make the coffee, pouring
hot water over grounds dark
as burnt oak. It is a slow dance
in the unlight, requiring
patience and steady hands,
as dawn tries to climb into
our eastern kitchen window.

The coffee rested, I
pour a cup and return
to bed, pillows propped up
against our white-worn
headboard.

My wife shifts — her right leg
now sleeps against mine, as
I sit, drinking black coffee,
in the almost morning.

Gary D. Grossman
Poetry Breakfast, October 23, 2023