Each goes to our own corners,
This welcome May-warm April Sunday.
My husband claims the bed,
Supine, hands crossed over belly,
Feet crossed at ankles,
A double helix at rest.
The old, skinny cat
A circle in his heated bed.
No day too warm for his frail bones,
Head resting on a catnip mouse almost
As old and skinny as himself.
I take to the couch,
Stretched into a stick
Under the window beneath the sumac,
Listening to a house sparrow whistle
The day shapes itself into and around us,
Resting with us into the afternoon.