You are still, sleeping, quiet. Like my babies upstairs.
An occasional stirring, a dry leaf fluttering down a row.
Curled up, cozy, underneath layers of snow.
Our hands and bodies have worked the soil, moved the rocks.
With each season new plans, new varieties.
Seeds pressed gently into the soil, miracles emerging.
Beauty, of the cultivated variety, just outside our windows.
Our roots stretched deep into the rich earth, some will always remain.
Now, the memories of others will deepen the fibers of history.
And I will tip-toe out, gently close the gate.
A tiny creak. I’ll pause, turn, then continue.
Nostalgia tightening my throat.
In the morning we will wake.
Slow, brightness warming your face.
And an emptiness at first.
Then you will find that warm embrace from the sun.
And I will find mine.
In memory, I will breathe you in and you will breathe me out.