Weathering

Who doesn't want this?

Rain

all afternoon --

damp, silent

wet streets.

Cars pass by,

the hiss of tires

barely audible.

 

I slam the door

with everything I've got:

"I don't want you to be

with anybody else," I weep.

You hold me close, your skin

smells like yesterday,

like 20 years from now -

and I take you as you come:

flawed

perfect - just like

home.

 

I want to weather February,

August,

to sit together

on a windswept beach

in green chairs

one day far from now

and laugh at our initial doubts -

having persevered the rain,

the politics,

the lean days,

the moods.

Still together as the water

sweeps the beach

then retreats,

leaving us alone - together,

hearts full of ancient sands --

looking at each other

looking deeply within,

rings intact; joyous.