Three short lines, and almost nothing happens. Someone lies in bed all morning, and the speaker's attention narrows to a single detail: his wife's ear, thin and little. That choice is the heart of the poem. Rather than describing her whole face or the room, he looks at one small part of her, the way you do when you're lying close and have nothing to hurry toward.
The word "thin" makes the ear seem delicate, almost see-through, and "little" adds tenderness. The speaker doesn't say he loves her, but the way he looks says it for him. The title, "Abed," is an old-fashioned word that adds to the slow, lazy feel. Notice too that the sentence never quite finishes. It just trails off at "my wife," as if the speaker is still looking and has no need to say more.
The mood is intimate, still, and gentle. It captures the kind of closeness that shows up in small, unnoticed moments.