Sleep has infused
his brain with energy
transformed into words.
I watch his mouth moving,
his disheveled silvery hair,
his familiar far away look.
I try to stay focused
while he lectures
on theories of black holes,
the ninth planet,
evolutionary development,
how the brain works,
religion, politics,
and ultimately,
solutions, not always pretty.
Squinting in the pale light
of early morning
I silently review our numbers,
years behind,
years ahead.
Our feet touch,
rustle the sheets
as he decodes
the puzzle
of the very earth
I simply tread upon.
I used to wonder why
he shares these
early morning rambles with
a woman who hasn't
read a science book since 6th grade
until one morning
he pauses and says, Say something.
I raise my eyebrows, ask, Why?
I like hearing your voice, he says tenderly.


From Sounds of Morning (Finishing Line Press, ?).
This poem first appeared in Cultural Weekly (November 2016).
Used here with the author's permission.