Valentine

Our matchbox bedroom in the loft above your

sculpture factory

Turns magical at times

Behind its dark blue Druid door. Last night,

Inside you, sweetheart,

It felt as if I were coming from the soul itself.

And that Indian Summer Sunday afternoon a year

ago

When the bed became a meadow

Of purple thistles, the honey hidden at the bottom

of the stem

Farm kids know to find

For the sweetest suck of all.

And sometimes in the winter when the room turns

into a Cornell box

Filled with the everyday miracles—

Soap bubble pipe and thimble, wooden rabbits

And old tan magazine illustrations of the Zodiac.

Or turns into an igloo in which the only place to

Is to burrow here below the yellow blanket and

the pillows

To the South Pacific

Of ourselves. And then those mornings on

vacation

Gentle as the feathers of a light spring rain, and

at the same time hard, like the beak

Of a hawk. You are where I belong.