Rising

Rising

A pot of tea brews
on the table
a bunch of violets in a glass
the smell of grilled bacon tints the air.
Together we watch the chickadees feed
the hawk circle.
Your lips taste of Earl Grey, mine of mint.
Your hands burn through the silk of my kimono.
A beautiful day in the neighborhood
the weatherman murmurs
and we smile.

And I recall when it wasn't so
when rising was solitary and faint
like the morning moon
and the cottage shook and chattered
with a cold, cruel wind.

Listen to me read if you wish.