Through the door of our home,
sunlight and embers.
This first shelter of memories,
collections, arrivals and departures,
kept in note books,
pages already turned towards the sky.
The legend of someday,
written the night we walked home.
Far away from here our hands circle the moon.
But long before the sun comes with a silverweed spring,
and books and pages gleaming with prophecy…
Your breath fell,
day after day,
in simple promises upon my neck.