Saturday Morning

A working man, a loving wife, a Saturday morning

He sips on the coffee-and her-
As Saturday morning sun slips through the blinds.
He drinks in the beauty around him
With only the sound of birds to distract.
The stillness of the moment
Mocks the movement of a week
Filled with the dross that
Hides the heart so deep
Only the fire reflected in her eyes
Draws him up through the surface
Where the loss is lost
In the fresh morning air
Where the birds fly
And fuss this morning to
Fret over worms and a nest of sticks.
He frets over grander things, or so he pretends,
To justify his neglect of gratitude
For all the good things in his life.
Like her.
The dance of her coffee's heat
Rises to fade
Into the drops of muted sun
On her face.
The face that has seen his best and worst days
Glances up with a momentary smile that is
Not so intentional as it is instinctual,
Like something you know
But don't describe,
Cause it sounds like a lie
When you let it out.
And so he keeps it in -
Lets his hacked secret percolate -
Lets his worship of her lay prostrate
Before the silence of this
Saturday morning.