What I Miss When You Are Gone

by Marc Swan

Hearing a low gurgle beside me as you sleep,
the soft patter of your bare feet
when you rise before me,
quietly leave the room,
put on your outside gear,
water the shrubs and garden,
pick off Japanese beetles,
red-headed worms,
a variety of plant predators,
the fresh pot of espresso I make
every morning
before granola, blueberries,
homemade yogurt,
your footfalls on the stairs
as you pass my office
into your studio—
cutting of cloth, whirl and buzz
of the sewing machine
as you assemble one more shirt,
a dress, pants, overalls,
quilt pieces, and of late, quilt art
finely rendered in an ekphrastic manner
from an earlier painting hanging
on the dining room wall
where every night it’s a party—
fresh greens, salmon or chicken
cooked perfectly, potatoes, beans
sometimes rice, pasta and clams
or mussels in a savory sauce,
and conversation we carry
with us into the media room
before the PBS Nightly News,
side by side
in our sea green chairs
watching the larger world unfold.