Another pot of coffee pressed while
the snow piles softly against the panes
and our pajama’ed daughters drive small
vehicles of even smaller creatures
about the house, racing to appointments
here and there, they play at being us.
The snow grants reprieve, an excuse
to stop and wait, not pressed, unlike most
weekends when we rush toward whatever
it is we do: mostly, it seems tasks
not accomplished during the week.
Yet in today’s quiet Saturday
morning moments we linger: these we
yearn for during the chaotic pace
of work’s week, these that are pressed in a
book of memories banal but desired
still because they usually flee,
chased off by a cycle of trite to-dos
that drive us from our cozy bed, but
where this morning, your head on the pillow,
I watched you sleeping, and traced the
imprint of your heart, pressed into mine.