The horizon filled steadily with smoke, and I put my arm around your shoulders and walked into the afternoon with something akin to joy. You, my best running mate. My most diabolical partner. Nobody. Anywhere. Stands a chance against us.
Seven years.
You tell the most terrible puns.
Leave laundry wet in the dryer for days on end.
Drop shoes in walkways.
Leave tap water running.
Seven years
of risotto and coffee.
Of riotous dance music.
Of love letters written on paper that thins and thins and thins
but never frays.
Letters left in pockets and purses
and books to be visited often.
Seven years,
the entire life of your grandchild:
her intensity a long, beautiful echo of yours.
Seven years and I cannot shake you.
I am constantly revising my path toward you.
To meet you again and again
here at the altar.
To marry you
more gently each time,
like the osprey over the river.
Wheeling.
Resolving more perfectly into this band on my finger.
I am yours
I am yours
I am yours
In richness
and laughter.
In temper
and failure.
In a landscape on fire,
I am yours
I am yours
I am yours
I am yours.
Worn, O my heart,
with love.
