And there it lies, arguably,
in the birth of a word,
the miraculous first
and the intentional ones that follow,
carefully knitted with your truth,
and their sheer necessity
as it’s revealed to us, only us,
just before dawn, just after dusk,
and entirely anew
after every single winter.
And if that’s where togetherness lies
in tenderness and fragility always,
then the mosses and hay beneath
are our willingness
to stick around
for a while.
To stick around
for a while
and possibly a lifetime.