Longing

His hands are beautiful, polishing the sink,

Carefully ordering the supper dishes in the rack,

Holding the handle on the vacuum hose, removing the

Dust and hair from another day of life

In the evening as he puts the fresh grounds

Into the coffee filter

He calls out with delight in the rich smell

Of the beans

Transporting him to his Italian roots

Sitting alone in the living room she wonders

Which part of her delights his senses

He takes tender care of the gardens

Feeding the birds, nurturing the soil and grass

Marveling at the green sprouts poking through the

Peat moss

In the morning, she sits in bed with a

Warm cup of coffee

Delivered to her waking hands

Listening to the movement downstairs

Waiting for the gardener

Realizing he is not coming back to bed

She gets up and then picks a few flowers

For a bouquet