All love
is an afterthought,
an ideal
that whispers “remember me,”
carrying us,
wildflowers in a basket,
petals falling,
lighting on the edge
of gravel.
Funny how the road
boasted victory.
I just remember the windlessness,
the still
miracle that carried
us gently,
setting us down with purpose.
There we
waited for the next rain,
the storms
that weather us, bring wrinkles,
replanting us
in the inevitable softness
of together,
the dusty beauty of it all,
this us.
