Perennial
       

You surprise me at noon.

We undress quickly,
meet under the faded blanket.
There's your familiar taste,

comforting as toast,
your skin's texture, soft lips
I'd know in utter darkness.

Your articulate tongue.

How many times
have we found each other
just like this? A homecoming.

Like the peonies that spill
from the earth each July—
the ornate layers

that fold inward, protective
of some luscious secret.

Around us, the house
holds its breath. The dogs
resign themselves to the rug.

So many days
we lose each other
in labyrinths of worry and work,

in detours so intricate
it seems we might never
find our way back

to this bed our bodies shaped.

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Copyright © 2012 April Lindner All rights reserved
from This Bed Our Bodies Shaped
Able Muse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission