In threads of the prosaic,
when I’m feeling far from poem,
here are things to bring me back
to my words-bejewelled home:

You, cheerful, through the speckled paint
that makes you look like Father Time,
me, tickled, through sporadic rain,
that I can wash my hair just fine,

The breakfast that you finally
had time to eat at two,
the fire to make things cozy
that I tended just for you,
the progress on our project,
moving through its awkward phases,
and still affording grace
as I am honest with my praise.

©Wendy Mulhern
April 24, 2021