Early Sunday Morning Poem by Edward Steinhardt

for Ryan

We are folded into one another
As only lovers can be.
Your head rests
On the inside of my arm,
And our legs are intertwined
Like tree limbs.

It is early Sunday morning.
Your deep breathing
Mirrors my own,
Here in the darkness
On Brookshire.
When I leave and return to bed,
You automatically
Take my hand or arm,
Guiding me into your sleep.
I nestle into you
This cold Sunday morning,
And think how life
Cannot be better than this.