Twenty-five

For S.L.

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.