By default now, this reach for you under
covers chilled by cool spring air awash through
slightly cracked windows—late May all leaf wave,
wing stretch, pollen puff off blown blooms. Unfurled
allergies and light rush. A clock taunt, this slight
trill fooling about feeders, between curtains,
and still more light bustle flitting quiet
in whispered hours of sleeping dogs, daughters
a door away. Your hand warms mine, mittens
us in wakeful languor unwilling to break
open anything wider than day, though heat
sidles up our spines, fall’s blushing pears
summered well to juicy peak. Us, ringing
silent alarms with one well-placed toe trace.