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Time with you
is measured in pies
and noted by the stove’s clock.
It trots on wide, fleet feet
despite the heavy satchels it packs,
delivering splendor in homespun stitches,
in peonies and nutmeged cream.


Time with you
sounds like cherries
and tastes of Vivaldi under laughter.
It leaves my hands well-used,
smelling of onions and black earth.
You hear me. You shape a bell
and in your sounding chamber, I am reminded.


Time with you
lives long in me;
runs through me to hold
the next hand that I touch. And the next.
I wrap this thread about my ankle
and push at walls within
to know and trust you with me.

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