Rain rushes against the windowpane
As you hold me in the bed we built.
Our green-eyed babies sleeping soundly—
Lulled by the honeysuckle breeze.
We dip into the river from the step stones,
Clothed in love and without shame.
The doe watches us from beyond the oaks—
She is not afraid of our voices
Or the splash of our bodies in the water.
You watch from the floor as I braid my wet hair,
Already curling from the smoke of a fire.
Cold droplets cascade over us
As you carry me to the bed—
A tangle of limbs under the quilt.
We rise at dawn,
Your nose still scrunched from slumber.
I meditate to the sound of the sparrows,
My prayer to the mountain sprouting roots in the grass.
Lost in tranquility, the scent of cinnamon calls me back to you.
The kettle begins to whistle,
And you press the warm mug into my hands.
At the table of gnarled hickory, we talk of tonight’s dinner,
Who will take the kids to school, and that song on the radio yesterday—
The one that reminds me of you.
I look through the window to the future we lost,
The humidity of May slick around my face,
And think of how your hand used to feel in mine.
The sparrows chirp once more,
And I keep walking.
Hannah Bagley is a poet and writer from Southern Appalachia. She is also published in Feminine Collective, As It Ought To Be, and others. Bagley draws inspiration from nature, travel, and the human experience through a feminist lens.
**Featured image credit: Nour Betar, Unsplash