Freewrite

My Dear,

Hanging pictures of coffee mugs up in the new kitchen.
I know the one who painted these.
It's almost complete now, and Bobby Darin sings
In the background, smooth voice warms
Through the scratches of the needle.
It's a balmy night, almost.
I watched you all evening, thinking of this new life
we might get to have.
Rooms full of books and music and palm trees
and it's almost complete now.

I went out and bought plants tonight; I couldn't help it.
The green makes the house look like home.
From the unraked backyard, I can see into the kitchen,
and I can tell it's a good kitchen.
Soft glow, glass bottles, a wine rack half full.
An entire cupboard dedicated to baking.
The refrigerator is stuck full of pictures and postcards and magnets
from all over this country.
I wrote silly things on the grocery list and waited
until you noticed and laughed.

It's late now.
Close to midnight and I am still not used
to staying up this late, though it's been nearly two years.
The brick leading to the front door is being thrust up
by earth and moss, but I do not want to fix it.
It feels a little wild, a little untamed, beneath my shoes.
Will the tulips come up in the Spring?
I'm afraid I did not plant them deep enough.
The way you brush my face as you pass may be deep
enough to coax the bulbs into long slivers of green leaf
and bright vases of red, of purple, of deep blue.

It's late. Come give me your hand, the night is warm.

Though I am ready for the first night and the first snow,
I would like to press my lips to the white hollow
of your wrist and think that I still taste summer.