Drink from the spout of being with you.
Everyday the level rises and we continue,
beyond the sickness of our son, beyond the minor
and major setbacks. Drained at the night’s fall,
the glass refills with joy, with your business
in cleaning our house, with helping our son’s
vision, patching him even as he hates it. Yes,
I love in the middle of life, rather than
the fantasy of plucking out of time like
picking a silk rose that has all of the delicacy
of reality and none of the life. Life means
I fight glaucoma and you suffer a bad back.
Yes, we drain the glass. Yes, it refills. Miracle.