As My Tea Grows Cold
The last good kiss
you had was years ago.
Richard Hugo, "Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg"
An old married couple, the brilliant and raucous cardinal and his more somber mate, not reserved but content to not be the center of attention.
He has been singing for an hour, waiting, not patiently, for the sunflower seeds I toss under the pines each morning just after dawn, taking one now and cracking it, letting the husks fall, bowing a little and placing the seed
in her beak; does this again and again, she neither demanding nor demure, not gratitude as much as grace, hers and the acceptance of his, leaning a little into him each time. Both utterly delicate gestures, a sacrament, rite and ritual of a long knowing, the giving and receiving and sharing of their seasons together. This morning, these years, there is no love like theirs.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2015-06-29 at 16:49
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