Through golden hourglass I watch a determined
flickering fumbling bumble bee

then attempt a self-soothing mumble
“be here now”
and note the tension swelling 

I till nails into summer’s bookend eve
the same fingers that dig into marriage
and baby’s thighs
and natural family planning

until fragile limbs fling ‘round my neck
and the smallest little bird starts pulling

I think how God must be a puppet master
lifting strings at each end of your laughter
as He paints my chin with silver

I watch you hunt crickets under stones in the driveway
crumbling dirt away from your body
between fading pink polish
seven inches from a Band-Aid

just for a moment
I almost forget that
all I have is the memory

of that night I moved silently with you
the weaving of our fingers and the knocking of our knees

and how it felt to be kissed on the ground of New England
in the between of moss and balsam-covered sheets

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