I sit at the kitchen counter,
you come and slide your arm
diagonally across my chest,
above my left arm and beneath my right
so now my head rests on the meat of your shoulder.
I curl my arm around yours and lay my hand at your elbow.
I feel my core release and you bear the weight of my torso now.
Your fingertips press into the flesh of my back and side in
large circular strokes. I am aware that I have neither
just birthed a baby nor have we just conceived one,
and yet here we are wrapped into each other,
wreathed, supporting and supported.
You’ve just come back from driving our oldest to rehearsal,
and our three young ones are gathered at the counter with me
dying eggs for Easter. I’ve no idea what has drawn you to me
in this moment, but I thank God for it, and I will come
to remember these sensations of release and letting go
as the moment I began to trust in the turnings of seasons.
We make this life together,
our own dusty prints over the road;
our own hands making up
and turning down the beds;
our own mouths tasting
the bitter and the sweet, the salty and the sour;
like Rumi’s chick pea and cook,
we are each other’s teacher,
hitting each other with the skimming spoon,
boiling in our passions and in our sufferings,
in our mysteries and in our unknowings.
And these baby chick peas
we think we are cooking; they are
cooking us, the little gurus, the little lights,
the little creatures bedazzling our tapestry,
its bedraggled edges torn through sleeplessness
and sorrows. We are all jumping in and out
of this blessing pot together, our understanding
deepened and flavored, our love seasoned and spiced.
Our beds warmed and cooled; you are my blanket,
I am your pillow; they our comforters, we their bed.
Our footprints pressing deep and creating distinction.
We carry each other over the road, through the joys.
Christ within us, keeping together.
Today’s clouds sit in the sky, scoops of ice cream
on glass tables. On a tiny mountain top
we let our feast rest warm in our bellies, watch
our kids run wild
through the prairie grass. The trees’ journey toward
winter deepens, leaves like flames flare along the
horizon, flash out of the dense green skyline.
Our season, shifting
within this sphere of space and time, we measure
love in actions; we count our growth rings on the
circumferences of memories. We are
stories, closed curves combined.