Ode to the crown molding in your sunroom
 
I lie on the day bed in your sunroom
and gaze at the ceiling.
My eyes find and run the length
of the crown molding
atop the wall.
The flowing, smoothly sanded grooves,
the flawless paint,
and the perfectly cut angle
where two walls meet.

My eyes flow freely
from angle to angle
and from line to line,
savoring the sweep
and simplicity of shape,
the unblemished
lack of obstruction,
flowing
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth.

And the sun
through the western window
falls on the photographs
on the wall,
the photos of you,
your mother, and daughter,
and my eyes stray
from your photo
through the open door
to you,
at the table where you sit,
clicking keys,
sending signals
to warm the eyes and heart
of someone else clicking keys,
sending signals
from some other screen.

Then I fluff the pillow
behind my head
and let my eyes return
to the pleasure of the molding,
the rhythmic relaxation,
while my heart is warmed
by the sun,
the photographs,
and the certainty of the sound of you,
sending signals,
clicking keys of love,
in the next room.