Passing quickly in the morning
as you make lunches
and I rush to the car
isn’t what I imagined
that day we stood
in the old barn by the sea,
my hand gently touching yours,
and feeling every movement of the sweat
trickling down the small of my back.
Standing outside in the garden,
I didn’t notice the photographer
as we talked idly
about the softness of the rain —
though the pictures in the crimson binder
tucked up on the highest shelf
tell me he was there.
Let’s meet again in that garden,
where we can stand still,
my hand resting
on the laces that entwine
the back of your dress.