A quarter-century seems such a poured-concrete measure.
The push-me-pull-you of our journey is better
defined by craned-neck views of indigo buntings,
hand-in-hand sprints for cover from sudden storms,
morning-loon lakes traversed in canoes,
late-spring lady’s slippers hiding in plain sight,
winter-chilled lunches in ember-warm ski huts.
How actuarial to mark the mere day we met
when, had we taken sufficient notice
of that butterfly’s wingbeat,
of every bus just missed or caught,
we could have predicted our first encounter to the second…
yet never in a million magnolia blooms,
a thousand Sunday dinners
a hundred seasons come and gone
a dozen road-trip holidays
could we have foreseen
these countless simple pleasures
that have filled our life together.
