My once lover saw an old door, then saw a table in it;
he changed its plane forever like death does for us;
gave it strong legs to never move on and crowned it
with a cut-glass bowl of just-in-season fruit.
Years later, my friend saw this table, then saw
a garden bench in it; she studied long and leisurely,
planning her feat of hard wood origami; she sawed,
hammered and made it with nothing added or spared.
Love’s a like proteanism; the open promise of all
things to be its evidence, with a mere new morning’s look.
This new morning on our garden bench, we give
room to the bird-shit begun in the fig-tree above,
we give thanks to our births well-timed and placed;
we’ll give, good-grained hearts, till we’re taken away.