We’ll take separate cars. I’ll meet you there. We’ll be the only ones on a pre-work morning date. Your brew born of some artisan drip (“We probably need a new laptop”), mine Italianly pressed and milked (“Let’s go to Fez and see the Medina!”) then kiss-and-fly goodbye in the parking lot.
This mating pair of doves on the back fence (white prefab, plastic, picket). They fluff and puff for warmth against snow falling from gray to ground.
Orchid in hair, feathered in to stem the tide of petal longings. Spring still feels far.
Our child of seven years tries on a mic-ed pastor’s passion in her out-loud prayers, “Thank you, thank you, God, for your shining grace.”
Fat Tuesday party of two for thirteen wedded years. The Biblical reassurance of seven years’ completion which harkens back to scripture read at my father’s table 25 years ago. He draws peace from The Word’s numeric themes. Thank you thank you for your shining grace.
East and West coast Times removed from the West Wing. My friends, your accountability is blooming, shining, taking flight.