After eating your homemade bread
fresh from the oven,
slathered in butter
and a friend’s homemade jam,
we sit in descent of dusk
with the Golden at our feet.
Chopin’s nocturnes softly play.
The dishwasher joins in concert
with percussive ticking of the clock.
While reading Faulkner,
you fall asleep in your recliner
with me by your side in mine,
recording the poetry of
this mundane moment
of deep, holy satisfaction.