Twenty sweet years or mostly
not to mention the occasional evening split

by cool stars remote and separate above the house
or somebody’s willowed tears, the weeks

rained over us, beyond us even
in drought the wick of our youth

burned steadily down into our bodies.
There is no hiding the love we’ve sewn

into the squared quilt of this marriage—
long blue nights stitched into days full

or difficult or ordinary like the dozen
tiny wrens on the wire this fresh morning.