Talking With My Husband

by Beth Spencer

The window here’s no friend of yours today.
Its criticism’s harsh; it lights you pure.
Your eyes look worn; your beard is stubbled gray
but never have I found your face so dear.

I’ve simply missed the moments when you may
have morphed into the man I sit so near.
Between us, conversation wound its way
I did not see, for all that I could hear.

Across the plates we turn-take, have a say
and feed the separate gossip to our ears.
And as we trade the tidbits of the day
we further weave the pattern of our years

The body matters not; you are my own
and when you talk with me, I know I’m home