She is at home now, trimming the hedges or raking leaves from the small, square lawn. She may be reading, or contemplating writing a poem. She may be tucked up on the green chair, headphones in her ears, fingerless gloves on her hands, working in her notebook. I like to think of her this way; cocooned in the house.
But there are rough winds blowing. They work their way into our simple rooms. They whistle up between the floorboards. They sing melancholic dirges to the wardrobes and the shelves. They prise their fingers into narrow spaces, into the smallest crack. She tilts her head; I see her listening for the voices that aren’t there.
Please, my love, don’t listen to the wind. This warm meal, this well-made bed–this desk and chair and roof and wall–they only exist in their truest and most beautiful forms when you attend to them.
Give me your full and undivided self. Put your head on this pillow. Place your hand inside this glove. Sit here, beside me, in this warm pool of sunlight. Let the wind blow over us, blow past. Stay here, dear heart, stay with me in our plain and honest love.