The seasons circle and whir around us
while we sit at your desk,
your disability holds us hostage
as the fall trees shed their hair.
Squirrels scamper and steal acorns
from your feet.
I hold your hand. We are young.
This is how it is.
I lean against your commanding form
and grey hairs sprout from my head
like threads from Mother’s sewing basket.
Winter approaches with wind and snow
that wrap your arms around me.

They will take you to the hospital soon
and I will visit you with evergreen needles
in a pool at my feet. Snow will melt; we are old.
You walk out on sturdy legs, arm-in-arm with me
as peach blossoms fall upon our raised palms.
Sparrows make a nest in my hair and we kiss
under the ivy. We are free.
This is how it is. How we’ve always wanted
it to be. Seasons circulate around us, aging us,
but now we can take walks
in the woods among the birches, the bluebirds,
the sienna maple, the snow-covered log.
And this is how it is.

02/11/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
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