This morning I woke to the softness of your voice in my ears
and I lay in that pool of sunlight while you tripped like water over stones and the birds calling out my window.
Last night there were the leaves, finally, unfurled and wet in their newness, shushing together in the dark, in the wind, and I stopped, paused with my hand on the door
and held on the threshold by that warm blooming.
The heat a drug,
and I grew round like the moon, hips soft, curved movings.
"Into the day."
Such a slow spring.
And now, eyes closed, such a slow awakening.