*the morning had not come*
 
 snowflakes are falling
 in little pecks
 against the window,
 to either disappear
 in the winter dark
 or stick and melt
 near the rounded blush
 of a beeswax candle
 burning on the sill.
 
 early morning cbc.
 the hollow drone
 of a Spanish guitar
 fills in the dark corners
 of the bedroom.
 
 golden brown,
 curved and still,
 her naked back
 like an undisturbed
 autumn leaf,
 she sleeps in the warm disarray
 of the bed sheets.
 the tan and pale
 soles of her feet
 stick out vulnerable.
 
 i've been watching for an hour.
 she does not move.
 the morning will not come
 if i do not move.
 nothing else exists
 beyond the room,
 the bed,
 her breath.
 
 i know if i get up
 to find a glass of water
 i will come back,
 feet and skin cold
 from the winter drafts,
 and the sun will be getting up
 in the only window,
 and the candle out,
 
 and she will be finding her clothes,
 her bracelets and brush,
 and a hundred other moments
 that begin without me.
 
 	--jason murray (1/98)