Side of the Bed

A voice breathes,
Good Morning,
at the side of the bed.
I know that voice,
birdsong enchantment,
soft grace notes,
enough to stir me from
the last of sleep.

How like back then,
when, face to face in
the white sea of her bed,
she roused me from under,
unbidden, yet desired,
just as I, asleep, asked
for her today, close,
at the side of the bed.

If I am lucky, her voice
will go on with notes of
welcome, disapproval,
will echo through the days.
My body aches, but rises,
wills my feet to
take me elsewhere,
away from wanting her.