if I start to hug you, I may never stop.

and if, outside our door, there is rain
or snow, we take no notice. in our
small cottage, the sun is shining. we hear
goldfinches singing when there are none.

at our oak table, simple, solid,
we enjoy the feast we've been blest with.
you have lotus tea, coffee for me.
bread of a French design, mild meats,
fruits of our choosing (I like green grapes, bananas;
you, perhaps peaches, or Carlos Williams' cold plums.)

                           *   *   *

in "Bonnard's Nudes", Raymond Carver spoke of the
French painter, Pierre Bonnard, who, over 40 years,
painted his wife as his young, always beautiful bride.
his intrepid love maintained her youth and radiance
in his heart, and in his eyes.

when love is true, it's invincible. nothing, not the
passage of time, nor the aging of the body, nor
the inevitable dissolving of physical beauty, can
vanquish that love.

                          *   *   *

when we sleep, we are wrapped in the comfort of joy
and peace. and now the day, and the poem, have
come to an end.

am I still hugging you?