I watched you sleeping in your chair.
In time, I realized how I love this chair.
It’s like a soft gentle cloud hovering over
the earthy landscape of our beige and black rug,
an airborne prairie schooner sailing smoothly
across the fruitful plains, floating over hill
and dale while you dream of tiny animals
dancing in the palms of your dear hands,
the hands I love, and the chair and the rug,
and the big window near you, where the world
displays its garments in an endless fashion show,
and the trees are models, striding down the runway
without moving, because the world itself is moving,
moving enough for both of us to love, and then let go.