Let’s say writing is a room: a sunroom.

Soft, white rays of light put a spotlight

on tiny specks of dust, drifting through the air.

Our room is old, but we refer to it as well loved,

as we still keep it tidy and use it whenever we can.

The carpet in there is freshly vacuumed and soft to bare feet;

the cat loves to lay on a warm patch for hours

on this beautiful, early, summer Sunday.

My tea sits and cools off-center on our glass coffee table,

dressed with a doily, and your coffee--two creams, one sugar--

occupies the end table. We’re not in that room right now,

but it won’t stay that way for long.

Together we’ll sit and talk for endless hours,

enjoying the room and its comforting atmosphere.

We’ll share the room and write together.