Master Plan: Shackle You To Me With Happiness

I’m going to rig the news feed on your laptop,
make it bring you only the best headlines: Whidbey Island’s
Lone Trumpeter Swan Gets a Partner.

I’ll train a parrot to always locate and retrieve your phone,
which, because of the Silicon Valley native I’ll hire,
can only be used to take pictures of waterfalls, and receive
amusing, interesting, or joyful texts.

I will piggy-back you all the way to the top of Mount Robson
so you can look down on all the hidden lakes, perfectly turquoise;
on the way down we’ll stop at Berg Lake for a lunch I’ve prepared, with
extravagant devotion, and toast our reflection under a warming afternoon sun.

I’m going to hire a contractor to divert Tzuhalem Creek past the patio
off our bedroom, and every night you’ll fall asleep, and every morning
you’ll awaken to the orchestral hush of running water.

Such contented bees, I’ll find (untroubled, as to match your treehouse days),
and every June and September we’ll harvest pounds of honey
made from the flowers of our own lavishly blossoming blueberries.

My master plan will include insuring your own pink health
with which to enjoy the permanently restored well-being
and ongoing flourishing of every one of our kids — and that’s how,

while thinking of blossoms, I hit upon my ingenious strategy
to take you to the ancient city of Kyoto, where at 60,
they give you a choice to start counting backwards,
or if you prefer, start over again —

but on this, a proviso: I get to be young too, again, with you,
watch you drive up the lane, windows down,
that red polka-dot dress, your face, that smile,
as I rush out the front door, pretending a calm coolness.