I enter the house,
after a long day out in the soil,
tired, worn,
from the work of a gardener;

I seek only a hot shower,
and the quiet of a few moments,
before Life overtakes me,
that which I cannot till,
or weed, or furrow;

and as I emerge, wet,
slippery, hot,
I find you there,
arms open, and so very
happy to have me,
and have me you do,
just as always:
one to one,
tons of quiet, slow,
deliberate fun;
passion so slow, so
that if it were an illness,
I would seek no cure;

what more could I ask for?

July 25, 2009, for the Wifey, who has no comparison.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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