What luminescent days in bed
with scents of her skin and hair
what hours of painting rooms with her
and days of attending his illness
has he forgotten?
Freed from the norms
and habits of wedlock,
her pulse quickens
loins of new love
and its adventures
crisp in her wet recall.
From the flashing heights
of freedom and thought of fresh life
suddenly they plummet:
hands sweat,
lungs like raw lumber
barely breathe.
Reefy with fear
arteries clog in legs heavy
with the millstone of uncertainty.
They can hardly move.
I listen seemingly impassive
to the weeping story
of his lawyer's call
to talk market values
while her eyes traverse
the history of their family
Timmy's crayola house,
grandma's cedar chest
and the ceiling furrowed
by a too-tall Christmas tree.
I wonder to myself
how I can help this lost couple
extract the thimble of possibility
needed to remove them
from the swamp of their past.
How can I serve
their reach into the soul
necessary to create a future?
