Standing at the kitchen sink, sun barely rising,
blush of light behind the trees, while I rinse glasses,
then glance out; it is just that much lighter, and again,
that much lighter, like I’ve caught the sky unfolding,
a curtain hitched up to reveal the Sandias expanding by moments.
And then I glance out again, and you are there,
making your way from the garage back to the house on the gravel path.
You’re an early riser now in these first careful weeks of sobriety,
head down; it’s hard not to count the stark days silhouetted
against our lives like cranes that pass overhead, cries unfolding.
You are inside and outside, known and unknown,
a familiar friend, then a stranger again.
Days where your hand is an old glove I’m holding
and other days where there are no hands, no gloves,
just your solitary way on the gravel path.
And now the sky is boldly brighter, striped with pastels,
and you’ve paused to look in the window.
Me inside, you out. Can you see me? Yes you can,
and your smile opens, early riser,
like the light in the sky, unfolding.
Published in Dos Gatos Press 2023