Present Day

Years ago, when you walked me across

the field while horses still grazed, I didn’t

see our future: the cabin sprouting

from the existing shack, wood-paneled

and stone-worked and windowed by your hands

mornings where we woke up

to thick fog carding through tall grass

russet does preferred for hiding their fawns;

afternoons watching you run with your white-and-liver spaniels,

you all so brightly lively—lovely—against

the field’s green; that I would be there

with you, sitting on the porch and warm

from summer and contentedness on the land

you were excited to buy and share with me.

I didn’t see that future then, and I’m

grateful I lack the clairvoyance that could

have cheapened the wonder of being

married to you.