Ode to My Husband Folding Laundry

Without need for words, our hands
find their way across the bed,
through the textile jumble.

as, in choreographed movement,
we fold sheets, roll towels sort clothing,
knowing the importance of carefully separating

what is yours from what is mine,
even though I am yours and you are mine.

So many times, you drive me like a queen
in a Subaru; wait patiently outside of stores;
so many times you make me coffee in the morning,
and tell me I am beautiful,

even when  I wake looking
like wrinkled laundry; so many times, you offer me
the last oyster from your plate.
Before you, I was frayed and stained
now your kind hands mend me and wash me clean.

​**
Published in The Write Place at the Write Time, Winter 2013/Spring 2014