No longer are you surprised with me
when you wake up to the sound of a whistling teakettle,
and how it was no different when we camped beside Lake Michigan.
I boiled water in still lit embers from the campfire the night before,
and watched as you stretched as wide as that morning’s horizon,
lying on that sleeping bag as if it were the great lake’s offing.
When you came out of the tent, I offered you tea
as your hair spread across your chest like fog
coming inland by way of an eastward wind.
You said you were cold, so I began to fold my body on yours,
the way the steam from the teacup rose up and through the fog;
right then, your hair was unusually thick.