By Sarah Dunster

When new, ungracious winds trouble the waters
and I worry I’m growing smaller in your eyes,
come lay your hand on my twisted hip
and be, with me, the days when our tomatoes
grew wild and red, and babies breathed sweetly
on our faces.

If memory doesn’t serve to bring it perfectly,
let me say it this way: be my bride always, in the
blaze of the circle on your leftmost finger–
I claim it entirely, and it still easily lifts the lids
off jars stuck tight with feeling.

Let’s read together the pages of longing–
where you traced the profiles, of what you wished
to love in future– sacred loneliness right there for
both of us to see. I know the world of loneliness,
the trial of a fracture in eternity.

You and I– we are riding to the best of our ability
the shocks and wakes of life. We’ve patched roofs,
walls, clothing and other threadbare things
against the rowdier weather, and these years
don’t wear us away, (you say)–
they press us close together.

About Sarah Dunster

Sarah Dunster has published poetry in many online and print journals. She has won local, statewide, and national awards for her writing. She keeps busy driving around her nine children, gardening in her attached greenhouse, collecting and raising butterflies, singing in all the local musicals, and cleaning up all the messes those things entail. She is preparing to launch two novel series independently in the summer of 2017. 

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