It was the middle of the day.
Early September. Light skirting
out from under the leaves. I was
taking the compost to the edge of
the yard when I saw you pinching a
pot on the old bench near the bird
bath we’d lugged from Albany. Mira
was lying in the grass, sun closing her
eyes. Something in the quiet light
made me realize that we were now
in this moment all we’d hoped for.
I put the can down and sat next to
you. Watched your hands shape
the clay. I wanted to run my fingers
through your hair. A small cloud
bowed and the sun warmed my
hand on your knee.
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