Darling, don’t scold. Warblers flit from tree to tree, garrulous about something. What is there to fight about? The glaciers are melting. Yesterday’s roses are full-blown— ivory and cream, blood-red, damask. Five out of eight movie trailers in theaters downtown depict apocalyptic worlds. There is a new laundromat that just opened two blocks away; you can smell the fabric softener in the air. We’re young and poor, already middle-aged and poor, forty before forty. Or are we? Supper doesn’t have to be at seven. Supper doesn’t have to be served with the thin gravy of abstinence, the plain hard rolls of buckle down grimly to business. The price tag isn’t the price tag; it’s the pinch of salt on a pillow of plain noodles, the gold serif of butter on a handful of sweet peas; summer’s warmth on blackberries at the bottom of the wine glass. Two can live as cheaply as one and still grow fat on the surplus. Let’s use the one good piece of china rather than have it gather dust on a cupboard shelf then break from the earth’s unsubtle tectonics. There might be days when I’ll sit with my face to the window, not moving, not saying much, just listening. Promise that you’ll toggle the blinds open, heat some soup, bring tea— anything green, anything to soften the brittle bud, coax the flower open again in the cradle of the cup.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.