Round and round

He drives me to work and picks me up every day. The mornings are often silent journeys.

Standards

Lounging in bed this morning, I avoided writing a poem that won’t quite pull itself together, about crows de-roosting at dawn. While not thinking about it, two things occurred to me. First, I really wanted a cup of coffee.

Curled under my duvet, fists balled under the pillow, head wrapped in a turban of duvetness with only my face exposed, my nose was cold. This morning it was -14 Celsius and swaddled in an amniotic sac, I dawdled getting out of bed. My husband had left earlier for a long-distance cross-country ski so there was no chance he’d intuit my longing.