We woke up from our ritual nap and long morning hug to start making a small brunch with a new recipe I found for Tartines. The baguettes from the day before toasted up nicely on the gas range.
She was with me in our small kitchen and as I sat with my toasted buttered baguette. I was told to try to keep things lighter today after yesterdays gazing and uninvited poetic statements. I composed myself then she proceeded to say something somewhat romantic and profoud.
"Where we are and are about to go, we will not need a home."
The beautiful thing of having an intuitive connection is speaking in partial thoughts knowing the more vital parts of the message would land and splatter like a dropped paint can in an artist's studio. Bits of feelings smeared on the heart. The rest grazing the legs and feet.
She had a glowing smile and glanced at me before returning to slicing the figs.
"Write me a poem, but make it soft. Make it as indirect as possible so that you could be writing about our love on Valentine's Day, but someone else reading it would not know."
Indirect? Ok.
At this point, we had spent so much time together we had a rapport. When she asked for a poem, she had asked so many times before that it forced me to evaluate how I wrote poetry. But I soon realized when I was around her, the tricks needed to induce a creative flow were not necessary.
the belief that a soul
could be crammed in and rushed
out of a heart shaped mold
the belief that they prepare
us for future demand
they gamble young hours
they ramble commands
"Wait, how is that about love?"
I snapped out of it and realized I was clearing stirred emotions after driving by a school earlier that morning. I looked at her wearing jeans, dull colored wool socks, and cozy sweater and the pull of her soft skin inviting the sun between cloud gasps. This was it.
I imagined her not standing in the kitchen, but standing on Caraway Hill, a lookout point on a nearby conservation land. I could see the sun setting in the distance as we walked slow motion from the trail to our car. We weren't holding hands, but the defeated sun clung to the horizon as it rested between the sustained gap we made with our extended fingers.
The foot-bent fields
Kneeled to the golden hour
We had thirty minutes left
Before we cooked and and devoured
The wine soaked chicken
We brought to our homes
Your entree was from Burgundy
Mine from Rome
An Aquarian told me
Through ivory cream reception
That my connections unconventional
Were the best of my collection
From pictures to presence
We hacked our reality
From faceless forms to day deities
Incense ash on the vanity
Of softness, the spirit
and bridge to a way,
Barely here or there
Yet still just enough to stay