Driving Toward Home

Today, somewhere near Charlestown,
or maybe it was Claremont,
I drove down Lover’s Lane
going exactly the speed limit
for the first time
in a long time.
I wasn’t in a hurry
to get anywhere.

On the seat beside me
was the dream of a box
shared with a heart
as sweet as the universe can be,
like the copper of November oaks
left to fend for themselves--
nothing but the grey sky
and the smell of snow
to keep warm.
Geese sing sleep as they pass
on their long flight to the river
just ahead of winter.

Meanwhile, the box remembers
the hands of her maker,
trembling with joy at the thought of that love,
that gentle touch.
It woke her before
from a sleep so sound
perhaps she had never been
this alive.

I was witness to another kind of love today,
just as pure as hers.
In that light I was smoothed
like stones,
removed of all my rough edges,
rolled by water and wind
of a storm no one expected.

Now I yield to my partner,
the universe. His will places his hands
carefully, solidly balanced in my core
where I could never go alone.