the sun slants into the kitchen
as you’re pouring her coffee
before you settle in with the Times?
And you close your eyes
and the snow you saw a minute ago
is white sand on the Mediterranean:
Bare-breasted women rest in canvas chairs,
eyes closed, under parasols.
Or maybe they’re reading–
something light, certainly not Dante,
though for years they’ve meant to finish
But you know your wife’s breasts
are as white, on a winter morning,
as theirs are brown in summer.
Your eyes are still blue.
Photo by David Olimpio