Watching My Wife Dry Her Hair

by Bruce Meyer

When we were young together
and eager to share our thoughts
seeing the world through love’s double vision,

I used to blurt about the smallest things –
droplets of shower water on your thighs,
your hair wet as willow boughs after rain,

and strands feathered on your shoulders
because they wanted to touch your skin
as much as I did before you wrapped it in a towel –

we never had to be anywhere on time
the way the hands of time make puppets of us now
on spring mornings when you shower

and I wait for the curtain to part,
not to step in after you and wash you away
but because you still speak to me

the way dawn speaks to dying stars
when all the light in the morning
is every second lived in a breath.

— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 1