No, love, it will not matter in the least
if we hunker down in this house
rescued from the grave, with
its rolling floors and colors that spark
warm desire—an Easter house, really,
resurrection through sweat and laughter.
But it is always you I truly see—hole or cedar ceiling,
Dark earth or flinging snow
Just you inscribed on everything, into the textures of it all.
These boards, well, they will hold our love
letting it seep out to others like a secret whisper,
like the incense of wisdom
that discerned how to be happy rather than
merely clever or appropriate.
Perhaps we planted an apple seed with this home,
But it is enough, my friend,
Because we have much in us yet that can bow and yield and release,
And then raise our eyes to all that Could Be
Because we know the intimate language of
A once-neglected love breathed awake
And full of light.