Four Versions of a February Morning

BRUCE GUNTHER

1
Shedding covers, stepping
onto frigid hardwood –
feet like bricks of white marble
in the semi-darkness.
He rises on knees
made of eggshells.
2
Her soft breathing in deep sleep;
the feel of her flannel pajamas
against his bare legs.
Yesterday’s argument
forgotten for now.
3
Tires crunch over crusted
snow and ice on the street
out front.
The wooden walls of the old house
groan as the unforgiving wind leans in.
4
In the mirror:
Bags under the eyes,
more speckles of gray whiskers.
The coffee maker coughs its first breath.