Do you remember how we first met?
On our first date
A black Harrier rose from rafters
To fly above my grandfather’s funeral
And I wrote a poem on grief

From there
Metaphors and similes became algorithms
For both survival and joy
You, poetry, became my lover and friend
Did I not open myself up to you?

Did I not pen my history in you?
On warm days, you’ve watched my heart open
Like a hibiscus with happy memoirs
But on cold days
You are the slow rise of the sun

Upon dry ground, still bearing beautiful fruit
To be written or read, offering comfort
And warmth –
Shall we grow old together?