How Many Sunday Mornings?

The glow of morning through the window  
lands on your breasts.
While watching their steady rise and fall  
I think of the night before.  
 
White curtains puff in through the window
and the leaves of fall rustle outside.
The cool breeze sweeps across my chest
but doesn’t wake you.
 
Our love was born  
in the heat of summer and now  
moves toward its first winter.  
 
Your daughter's muddled words  
chirp through the wall  
talking with great inflection  
to her audience of dolls. I am not  
her father but on the Forth of July when she  
called me daddy, I  knew you’d make love to me
at least once.  
 
Your grandmother’s clock  
ticks from the other side of the room  
marking the hours since we last made love.  
 
Watching your breasts, I feel  
the growing desire for you.  
How many Sunday mornings  
stretch out before us and how
many could be filled with such joy?