The Hill. The Sky. The Window.
Outside it is getting light,
the view organizing itself
into a day like any other.
I am sat opposite my wife,
who is talking about her sister.
I had been unable to sleep,
and had got up and gone downstairs,
with my wife following
shortly after, expressing a
concern that was
equal parts artifice and affection,
urging me back to bed.
All that is hard to muster though,
these days. But the thought
did cross my mind.
She looked good still, stood
in a white bathrobe in our
kitchen.
Instead, I made coffee and tea
and we sat at the table by the window and talked.
I said Look at the hill, the sky, the window.
Anything at all can make sense sometimes.
