The Quiet Hours

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The Quiet Hours

In the quiet hours I wander
around the garden while the dogs
stretch their sleep-laden legs,
running through ferns and magnolia
leaves, chasing the cats up
the japonica tree. I fill the bird feeder
and hose their poo off the patio.

In the quiet hours I perform
the morning ritual of measuring
the coffee and tamping it down
in the bowl, pouring the water
into the well, turning the knob
and waiting for the steam.

In the quiet hours I read, write,
and contemplate. I watch the weather
report on TV. I think about what I’ll do
this day.

Today I think about the quiet hours
I spent with you. The times I visited,
all the mornings I woke up to the low
murmur of your voice and his, coffee cups
clinking and the smell of frying bacon.
I would snuggle down in the covers listening,
feeling safe and content. I’d feel grateful
that we’d finally come to this place
in our lives where we were happy
with each other. I often think of those mornings,
peace spreading in my chest like a balm.

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