You bring Your love in paper bags, or
in mouths of strangers and store clerks, or
in back breaking pews.
You talk to me in snowstorms
or bent by bedside.
We make plans--
a nap this afternoon,
maybe a walk tomorrow evening.
We enjoy wine together.
Sometimes we're quiet,
staring at the carpet or my fingernails.
We lie very still
and know, this is delight
and we indulge.
1 comment:
Lovely. You are, I think, truly writing a book.
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