when I wake in
the morning,
one arm tucked
under my pillow
my fingers reach
across the landscape of
crisp white linens for the
cool iron of the headboard
curled around decades of
old paint my fingers
trace layered patterns of
white, on white over memories
of
rust and iron...
a baby born into a winter's night,
honeymoons,
tea and toast on Sunday mornings with
the New York Times,
the delicate crepe-like skin of my grandmother's
hands, her thin wedding band swimming
on her frail finger...
before I open my eyes,
I know where I am,
and I know
that I am
home...
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