Our nights and days, together's press, are love letters from a cat to a can of tuna fish. All dead end streets forgotten for oasis second in blowing sand. For you are the prism of cherishing and I am willing prisoner. We'll slow dance on the kitchen tile even in the shadow of the valley of death. Azalea buds unfertilized by hands that used to know the soil like sculptures spinning dampened clay.
Aphids linger on leaves of green.
Sunrise isn't effortless. Hummingbirds of aging drain the nectar from an open rose. It's time for you to lean on us. Pack up burdens of your garden. Let us bring you sips of water in the night.