Things in their most basic form
are the hardest to put words around:
the winged tail of a shrimp.
a freshly washed pillow case,
growing crisp in the autumn air.
The late winter sun
quenching itself on a bowlful
of snow. The half moon
resting, always,
in your right thumbnail.
What I mean is this—
after the long ride home
when the grass is wet, and the dishes
have been dried, and the wrinkles
have begun to set themselves
in lines more broad
than fine, there will be you—
asleep. Your head in its infinite state
of undress. Each hair
set upon another
wrestling against the grains,
that by some unwritten rule,
must form in your blue eyes.
There will be you, again.
You.
Alight, aloft, adrift,
in my arms alone.
There will be you
and me
and we will be
at home.
-M. C. Boyes
