by Mary Makofske

Mornings we wake together.
The towns vary, seasons change,
but always there's a window with a tree.

You're learning to lose your temper.
Im beginning to hold mine.

In the Chinese restaurant, my fortune cookie said:
"Ir's wise never to hope too much."

Statistics threaten, and the coupled
names of friends fall apart.

On the telephone, the softness
of your voice surprises.

We share the quick ripening of gardens,
the slowness of conifers and children.

Your beard grays first, and there's white
radiating from your temples.

In the yard I hang sheets rinsed
of last nighr's love. The morning
light strikes wrinkles on my hands.

Last updated December 19, 2022