I worship these wild summers

with you, hold them like a treasure,

open my mouth and drink in

the lazy hours that uncoil like

gold ribbons, the peach tea sun.

But I want your fall, your first frost—

want to be there in the worst

of your winters. For you, I will

hold fast the doors, for you,

I will tend even the smallest fire

on even the coldest hearth.

And I will wait. Because

as much as I love your summers,

the truth is that I live for your springs—

for how you widen your

windworn branches, shake off the snow,

and invite the sun to light on you,

to hold you again, and to draw out

a life, a stubborn white will, a jewel

that had been there all that winter.