Sonnet 1

Meditations after Reunion
I could build a house with her. She could write
while I cook. The furniture could be
vintage, but never cheap, hip, or trite.
If within smelling distance of the sea,
we could forsake candles and closed windows;
watch the pages of our books warp; watch
the flocks of seasonal birds suck and blow;
measure our daughter with pencil notches
on the bathroom door. I could bury her
in the garden we started together,
and anticipate throughout the winter
tickling vines and soft sepal feathers
mixed with my earthy fingers. They’ll find me
there eventually, what’s left of me.