Filling Spice Jars as Your Wife

It seems like all my poems

after this will be different,

they will hold a different weight

like how the weight of my heart

has shifted into indistinguishable float,

into lifting cloud,

into weightless flight tonight

as the rain gently falls

on the summer-heated tin roof,

the din of casual raindrops

and warm low lights glowing

and wind blowing through the house,

we have all our doors and windows open.

We have all our doors and windows open

and I am pouring spices into glass jars,

coriander cinnamon cumin ground sage

and it’s hard to describe this

moment in the confines of a page,

tiny hills of vibrant color

and intoxicating fragrance

and you hear the cadence

of my heart

from the kitchen

where you build the perfect fitting slip-in shelves

for our spices over the stove,

match the colors,

match my colors to yours,

I have all my doors and windows open to you.

I have all my doors and windows open to you

and you have come all the way inside,

sat down at the table of my deepest desires

and lit a fire to warm us both,

the wind blowing through the house,

the rain gently giving way

to turmeric sunrise

and you, darling,

you are my wife.

You are my wife

and it’s like I have been waiting

my whole life

to say those words,

and I feel held in a way

I have never felt before,

to look down at my fingers

dusted with ginger and thyme

and see the gold of my wedding band

glint and shine in the warm low light glow,

I am yours

and you are mine,

promised on Zoom in our garden

of giant zinnia and hummingbird vines,

sung out in the morning song of bluebirds,

this union that ripples love out to the world

and infinities back into us again

love—

in the fine powder of these spices,

ground up essence of oregano and basil,

I see our love in every atom suddenly

and every cell in me finally exhales,

and perhaps that is the wind.

Perhaps that is the wind

blowing through the house,

this release of eternal searching

and finding you there,

calling me your forever,

naming me your always,

to have and to hold,

till death do we part and start all over again

looking only for each other’s hearts,

taking my life in your hands eternal,

marrying me to the heavens,

latching me to the star-trail of your white dress,

in this orbital dance,

this lift and spin,

this knowing from within

that all my poems after this will be different

because you are my wife.