We are alone again,
children and friends have come
and gone, a hush of sage
wafts through the air,
I sew a button to your shirt,
it’s August – placid, fair.
You’re writing in your room,
looking up now and then
to stare at the nasturtium
and lavender I planted by the gate,
for their gold and purple thrusts,
their sedulous reaching,
and when I bring your old
frayed shirt to my lips,
cutting the thread with my teeth,
I hold it there simply
because it is yours, and has
our smell, familiar and common.
I press the denim against my face,
tasting the air in it, the sun,
and realize how light it is,
how easily it could slip
out of my hands, out of this moment —
how the smallest distraction,
the slightest inattention
could leave me here alone,
with nothing but my face in my hands.
© LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR. PUBLISHED BY PERMMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.
Preview - The Hour Between Dog and Wolf