10 years now, bonded and branded.

 

cradled.

my world in brown, in dewy heady

earth we’ve buried our bodies in, the flesh of time.

 

In visions your hands are there, strong dusky mittens of

memory, the cold splash of a peach on a Sunday morning, remnants

of strawberries and cream, slithering up your palms as my belly,

full with child, our child, you brushed.

 

Arms would be cradles.

Eyes would be cradles.

Soft words at 4am buffers

bumpers, shields.

 

Love would be meaningless if given only as gestures.

 

Entwined in my heart you are-tangled like

vines in the backyard, ripe with

raspberries, or

exploding with lupins, bruised in pale blues and purples.

Your fingers dance through mine. Laughter like the rising sparrows

from your lungs to mine

echoes through these years.

 

The tin man is ours, he with no heart.

Empty we were, bereft and yet, quietly unaware.

We fill him now, we fill rooms, we fill forests and cities.

We cradle his heart in ours.

 

Happy Anniversary baby. I love you so very much.