Today is the day I don’t want
to get out of bed, the day
the backyard maple is gold
heading for ochre, the day
the bed has yellow sheets
and quilt, yellow roses
and baby’s breath
in a bouquet much too large
for the room, the day the air
coming through the window
gusts copper, and dust motes
quiver with metal thick enough
to mine; the yellow rug absorbs
it all, reflects color back into
the room. It’s this very day—
late this year, not much rain
or frost—that I’d like the world
to pause in its steady spin
while I refuse to leave this room,
this bed, refuse to work, refuse
to pay attention to anything
but tree, air, light.
I won’t even think about
what it all means until late
afternoon when the sun’s
on the other side of the house,
going down fast. Until then,
I will not be distracted, except
by you, mesmerized
by the burnish and sheen
of your skin, the way you, too,
are infused with gold—
before tonight’s hoarfrost,
tomorrow’s downpour,
before winter’s dark cold.