I seldom mention when I write
the sheets I slide between at night.
How comfortable it can get
when the perfect coverlet
floats down on my body prone,
at least when I am not alone.
Cold, the bed will feel like glaciers,
blue ice and several acres,
without you to cuddle up to.
Hot nights alone are wretched too:
I damply lie on what feels like
a plastic exercise mat, hike,
blanketed by smothering heat,
the sheet up just over my feet.
When you’re in bed with me, husband,
extremes are easy to withstand.
Our complaints and gripes together,
help to bear difficult weather.
When we’re under our comforter,
with cool night scents of lavender,
content, we drift asleep as the
mockingbirds trill a rhapsody.