Pressed

Another pot of coffee pressed while
the snow piles softly against the panes

and our pajama’ed daughters drive small
vehicles of even smaller creatures

about the house, racing to appointments
here and there, they play at being us.

The snow grants reprieve, an excuse
to stop and wait, not pressed, unlike most

weekends when we rush toward whatever
it is we do: mostly, it seems tasks

not accomplished during the week.
Yet in today’s quiet Saturday

morning moments we linger: these we
yearn for during the chaotic pace

of work’s week, these that are pressed in a
book of memories banal but desired

still because they usually flee,
chased off by a cycle of trite to-dos

that drive us from our cozy bed, but
where this morning, your head on the pillow,

I watched you sleeping, and traced the
imprint of your heart, pressed into mine.