New Poem

LIGHT

There are limits to what can be said:
The warm dander of belly-morning skin.
This amuses me: kitchen clatter,
stainless-steel pots and pans,
a kettle on the stove warming water for tea.
I am sitting at the table watching light
filter gray through the East-facing window.
A cardinal perches on the second-
story outer sill – and what of that
brilliant feather-red crown of tuft?
Later tonight I will switch the lamps down low,
and we will burn candles, whisper kisses to 
each other in their dim flame – like last week
when we made love to shingle-patter rain,
finished, and waited on the back porch
for the thick of August heat,
breathed-in wetness from the air.