February 4th,  50 degrees.
You arrived to stay for two weeks.
 
Right after you came,  I spontaneously ordered two new place settings of china
made by Wedgwood.  My first dishes in 30 years.
Wedgwoods were Darwin’s cousins, you know,  you said.
So I bought two crystal water glasses.
 
I washed them while the CD asked
would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
and sang crimson and clover over and over.
 
You swept the deck,  tried to tame a squirrel
who leapt into the sweet witch hazel
tumbling to almost the bottom.
 
The next day you woke me to say
it was 5:30 AM and that if we made love
for three hours it would only be 8:30.
 
Later we discovered the muffler had fallen off
during the night from the ancient truck
parked in front.
 
Maybe from the shaking, you said.
We couldn’t stop laughing
even in the face of our mutual terror.
 
It seemed to be a new morning
everywhere,
although one can’t be sure
 
while it is still dark,
and actions always speak louder than words,  you said,
I’ve given up the bottle.