There we were
swaying
in a snug swing
Watching the west
from our friend’s parent’s porch
the most hospitable folks
even in their absence
trusting
We had nothing to do
to read, to go to, to be, to talk about
nothing to do but be alive
We drank wine
and watched the birch row swaying in
come what may
and laughed at being alive
At being full up. To the brim. With love.
Locusts and Wild Honey 