Those sweet mornings I wake up
to everything or nearly that,
close enough,
and know it's nearly everything,
know it trembling, in gratitude,
too modest by nature
to ask for anything more, having had less,
much less,
I sit at the table at Al's, famous for
big plates--
Denver omelettes with hash browns served
on turkey platters--
facing him, my handsome newly-wed
who reaches across the table and cups
my hand in his two
as if mine were a butterfly he captured,
cupping it so carefully
not wanting to harm it,
and there are no words,
having no room to form
in our hyper-satisfied brains,
we don't speak or move
until steaming platters set down
and our hands return to our own bodies.
