(for my husband)
Dust the dining room table,
and all the love we’ve known
will shine upon its face.
Our passion will ascend
from fiddle-back chairs
like lute music from
a concert of russet maples.
Move the oaken bookcase
back into the room
where it stood when
we were newly wed,
because words are
more than food,
and you can sing poems
while balancing
steaming platters
with one hand.
Let the flowering plums
murmur purple blossoms,
the white windows
frame them in a sonata
of sparkling panes,
and let your dust cloth
gently fall as you
strum the table’s edge
with open palm.
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