When we sat on the wooden bench in the evening
with the scent of lavender pushing out over the strait,
the pages of salt water turning at our feet,
and I said I loved you, and you smiled out at the sea,
I knew, I would never fully know you.
And yet, as we sat in that stillness, the dark draping
slow and warm over our shoulders, how I thrilled
to that part of you that travelled ahead of me
on waters I had no compass for.
When you carried your books and folders through the snow,
me, behind you with the suitcase and stands,
and we entered the windowless room where you would open
your mind and your soul to strangers—finding channels
for their fears, and inlets for their dreams—
I kissed you, and you held me, briefly. Leaving,
I turned to watch you through the door from the lobby,
and I knew I would always share you,
and in sharing, stay close to you.
When we hold hands and walk the lane to the gate
and listen to the frogs that sound like ducks,
or check the saskatoons, or stop at the cranberries,
or stand—our necks craned back—on the road under stars,
and when you hold the lantern as I bend beneath the tree,
lending light enough to loop the catch around the trunk,
and we start back in silence through the shadows,
I watch for the yellow glow of home—
and always, like some joyous kiss of morning,
I find it, at the joining of our hands.