For BWF
written by: P. M. Flynn
Occasional winds bend the scent of brick towns and cities of
wood or stone. The sun bathes each valley, as the wind soaks
many trees with simple aromas collected on its journey:
Sweet Bays twist in brisk winds. The leaves flip over and
under our windows, sounding something like oceans falling
across damp sands.
Here, a stream guides a sunrise over another eastern dawn
falling on our home. Autumn leaves drift north and then
float west downstream, hinting at the ocean east of now.
I listen to you breathe tonight:
Each second between waves spills over a holiday shoreline.
Today will remain longer than its clouds—cares creased
and mailed, anything that happened before we vacationed.
We are wiser now, with words like shells unburied in sand
that holds days that matter most; spirit more than a stream
beside routines traded for vocation each year. No matter.
A cradled child is washed in soft, folded hands, in the cool,
airy rooms we share. You brush our lips with kind words
spoken with heaven’s clarity, a heart pure as it opens.
I rest beside you in a wind of turned pages as you read
the small print of vows made in bed, quiet moments
you care for me more than any books we gather.
You are more of a gift than anyone I know,
more of what can be remembered without eternity.
