Weekend

Sieved through window blinds
light falls in stripes
on your eyelids and mine
open.
Birdsong, also filtered by glass,
and the first I’ve heard all year
is still shrill in our duvet’d ears and,
confused by the cold, poses
a question at the end of each phrase.
Birds nests, like wedding hats, sit
in bare trees that flex with age. Arms
outstretched like the ladies
who wear them.
No leaves.
You turn to me, face
avocado green (and sick of me),
your fists
curl and uncurl;
mine are pounding the sheets.