In the mornings we tiptoe together quietly
(as much as one can on our groaning floors
to avoid waking the children)
Finally meeting at our table
Where you, clad in the sunrise, firmly suggest
That your almond biscuit take on a new aspect
More coffeelike
Your eyes are beacons. In them are scattered
The drink in your hand, the rich mahogany of the furniture,
And me
Just the same as when
We were fallsbound in the forest
I gently suggested you take in a view where the rivers met
The water hissing with newfound freedom as it leapt through the air
You turned around to find that I had acquainted my knee with the stone
And produced another type of earth from my backpack
Your eyes were beacons. In them were scattered
The fernplanted soil, the deep bark of the firs
And me
The fires of our sky-star that summer solstice
(which in incidental fashion drew the moon tightly near)
Compelled the very atmosphere to move through the ancient groves
In their branches with the breeze they sang, joyously,
"Promise."