Out Of Our Passing Selves

How you made my coffee each morning,
with my pressuring you to let
the very last droplet drain

through
the dregs
in the filter -

I'd watch you,
that you didn't jippo
and that you didn't let it drip

as you scythed the filter
from the cup across the stained mat
to toss the paper into the bin ...

Yet you were one of the deftest
I knew
in your practical gestures -

where was my trust in you
for these petty things?
We'd sit outside over breakfast

you praised each day anew,
how it settled your stomach,
made you feel good.

And we'd talk, track thoughts
in bright, clear dialogue,
our spirits twined

till I got restless, cross even
- 'I'm not like you retired,
I must work!'

And you'd feel guilty like you were hindering me,
while I attended to things
somehow so much less important, yet I'd feel

they were urgent,
more deserving
than the time we had

for one another.
And that made you timid
to approach me for love -

you denied your desire
while I grew tetchy with tension,
overwork, and you'd berate yourself, say,

'It's my fault,'
while I tried to keep the house clean at the same time,
breathless, seeing no outlet for rest ever,

on and on driven
by tasks. How now is it possible
to miss you, to wish you back

into such unpleasant circumstances,
eroded by money worries, physical weakness,
utter absence

of
peace?
I wish it not. You earned your relief. Our human helplessness, our nonsenses, criticisms so marked

are redeemed only ever by
the sun, the coloratura of birds,
the nodding grasses

given to the faintest breeze of feeling
slipping in undeterred -
cool facts

of
life
taking the simplest gatherings

together of us
out and beyond
our passing selves.