Small boy voices call at each other
from the space of a foot
loudly enough for me to hear
all the way to the living room,
where I sit perched on the couch,
clicking my way through my chores./
bill paying on the net./
Quiet Sunday afternoon snores
punctuate the occasional silence,
as my husband wraps himself
around the white down quilt
spread out upon our bed.
The wind thumps the window
with a tree branch hand,
borrowed from the backyard oak,
trying to get someone’s attention.
The noises fade into a patchwork pattern,
lulling me with security.

30 April 2000