First Words

Fortune claims a subset of our living. I acknowledge, too, joy and other things. Countless, timeless. I cannot name them all.

But it is you, experienced, which leads abundance to our door, despite my not deserving.

I glance at plates while I amble, each possessing a shared republic. All knowing, what few do, the purity of this existence. That we chose and still choose to choose. Day in, day out as constant.

There is no questioning choices, simply fearing dwindled time within them. Within you. Every coherent thing in me. All its part. The daily fading blue to yellow. And the next’s somber climb through squinting eyes. They are but bookends to mark our passing.

From an end of love to its other, an orbit million ways at once.

And when we find it’s sweet soft morsel, the product of its constant drumming, I will ask heart, stone, and limb to keep it warm as it has been.