Sunday Morning

A Poem About Sharing a Home

Harley Bell

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A bed dappled in sunlight
Photo by Eniola B. on Unsplash

Sunday Morning

We spend the morning in bed,
hair pressed to the pillows,
still blinking out of dreams.
Our first words plucked and mumbled.

Our bed is a mattress on pallets.
The sheets have come untucked in the night. Toes kicking at the air.
I am curled against the wall.

You are rumbling. One of us wakes first and spills a limb across a body.
I am still clasping at the last remnants of a kingdom. I dreamt in fragments; I befriended wild creatures
with fluffy ears and there were flowers inside a house.
I remember feeling warm.

There is no dirt here; no room inside our apartment;
all our corners and shelves already have purpose;
we have filled them with books
but
did you know
that I adore the space we share?

The way the light spills across a Sunday morning.
There is every possibility that gardens can be grown
in the places we forget to look.

There is every possibility that spiders
are waiting to be fed beneath
our bed. There is every possibility
we will befriend them too.

Soon there will be coffee.
Soon there will be conversation.

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Harley Bell

I write about writing, creativity and business. I'm currently working on a poetry book, titled Wild Altar. www.harleybellwriter.com