Sleepless after we made love, I searched
the house for everything that is you:
the blue bowl filled with ripe red cherries,
painted Minoan pots, African masks,
a sauce-splattered copy of Gourmet,
two new novels, a letter from our daughter,
and your black bag and appointment book
tossed at random on the painted pine table.
Outside, the bluestone patio warmed
my bare feet, and I smelled Casablanca
lilies and honeysuckle we planted last spring.
And when you found me stargazing
in the meadow, our soles stirred up
the scent of wild thyme, your face
in my hands again, the lines blurred
by starlight, Venus a crescent in the west.