When we started- as in the beginning
the hour between darkness and gentle
comings of light, the kind of light that
rises sweetly, a piano's hesitant fingers
inconfidently practiced, a room full
of virgins who see love through an open
window and shyly approach or smiles
driven from their shadow-
we were ignorant and beautiful.
And as I've shared this bread, this fresh
vase of tulips cut precariously, imprecise
at breakfast how many years I've turned
your eggs just as you've liked them,
my slightly weathered hands, flour on my apron
I should so forgive your vanity as you have
forgiven mine.
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