Saturday nights

A poem for my husband

We meet at this small wooden table most Saturday nights.

I don’t know its history, only that it was offered by family and sits simply in our home, propped level with shims

I wonder where it will end up, in a future house and in our lives, as the years go by

Will we start meeting at a more permanent piece of furniture, or perhaps out in the wide world, beyond our front door?

On Saturday nights, I try not to think of tomorrow, or the string of days beyond

How full can this moment be? I bring myself to you with an opening heart. Reaching through all those other moments in which we are apart.

Good thing this table is small, there is expanse enough to cross. It helps to be able to reach your hand, and see your eyes.

Originally published at https://www.tumblr.com on February 21, 2017.