Some days belong to me more than others.
When I lie spread out across your lap,
the sun sends out sprigs of flowering bliss,
your steady breath ripples notes warm as
deer eyes over my hungry hair.

Slowly, I turn over late thoughts in my hands,
nibble the more sensible choices and wrap
the leftovers in scarves of thyme. (Its green suits
me best).

The sun is standing tall.
Your feet tap yesterday’s warmth.
We will pool all statues and lend them our sounds,
our footprints, even, should they agree
to never tell apart our million needs
and some minor niggling prophecies
in what seems to be our bowl of luck
between the kitchen and the laundry room,
the children, the fickle cars and the ill-fated cats.

– Gerburg Garmann