You reach for a can on the top shelf,
and the muscle in your thigh resonates
with tendons bulging like wires in your wrist,
a single line of purpose, momentary perfection
on a linoleum stage.
You drop, spin, sigh,
heels once again granting gravity
its systematic symmetry,
a rationale for balance on limbs and toes,
heaven’s loss, earth’s gain.
You slide to a counter of onions,
simultaneously opening a faucet
and the pupil of my eye
that watches from under the stairs.
And then all is chaos.
Vegetables tumble into a pot,
its lid slammed as fire is stolen
from a stainless steel Prometheus.
You pour a glass of wine,
looking at the field beyond
and the wildflowers that mock morning’s routine.
Tears drift up from the chopping board,
then fall from the precipice of a dream.
You are happily lost.
I rise from the shadows,
step lightly, touch your shoulder.
I take too much for granted in the spring.
I do not reach enough, do not revel
in the wantonness of wildflowers
or leave enough to chance.
Spinning you around,
I pour a glass of chardonnay,
and then we dance.