"I'm home," you said into the place where I stored myself

tucked away alongside the jam jars full of preserves

with checkered lids and old hair ribbons on the necks

snuggled up close to the bag of sugar and an oatmeal drum

and that half-used box of baking soda we meant to throw away

but the sun came up on summer skies and we ran to them

In me, always, you rent out sections of my weary soul,

always remembering to turn on the overhead lights,

to put out the trash and start a good fire in the hearth

and when you settle into the bed on the flannel sheets,

your toes sticking up like the masts of sailboats,

although we are two it is a one that is wholly at peace

From here, the fading lights slice the mountains in two,

powdering the face of the lake with an unearthly glow,

so from these windows shared we can sigh for beauty,

by the length of the trees and the curve of our joining,

the crook of your arm a pillow where my head rests

and your large hands combing slowly through my hair

Seasons without meanings of silver or ebony spun thick,

no autumnal glories slipping into long icy winters alone,

but taut is this loving thing balanced on a trembling arrow's tip,

pulled and awaiting the pluck of a finger skilled and strong,

precarious though it is, this anticipation and its release,

when eternity sings, here  I will remain, proclaiming you bold.