first

i used to lay in bed,
while he read dr. seuss
by golden lamplight
to a jostling bump.

i spread books out on the table,
charted progress,
made lists,
mapped out precise routes
to my destination,
her.

i moved—
slipping through shiny blue waters,
pounding feet on an incessant path,
shifting in and out of eagle pose.

i retreated
with my stowaway:
unpacked a few belongings
in a trailer on top of a mountain;
sat on a porch swing
with a laughing dominican crone;
knit two, purled two
draped in an ancient quilt;
wandered through woods,
walked labyrinth paths
through an unhurried breeze;
breathed as reiki hands
hovered and passed—
she roiled and rocked,
i floated, silently.

second

you have books too,
and infinitely more songs,
but you must eavesdrop,
harriet the spy,
to hear them.

he cuddles a hello,
presses fingers into flesh,
receives your indignant reply:
dialogue complete,
we three fall fast into dreams.

i move—
ascend, descend on Escher stairs
with baskets of clothes,
toys,
cups,
socks;
stroll down neighboring streets
holding a soft hand,
lifting her solidness
onto a warm slide;
scurry from house to car
to this to that
to here to there
and back again.

i retreat—
into naps,
poems,
conversations,
lazy quiet,
a blank white wall.

and there are no charts,
lists,
maps;
just a compass,
a conviction,
and you, waiting patiently
for me to arrive.