Thank You
It is late February. Seven below zero,
a foot of snow on the ground in a winter
that seems to last forever.
We are sitting on the old davenport, watching tv,
your bare foot up against my thigh,
my warm hands caressing that foot.
A terrible thought streaks across my heart:
I am so happy,
but some day this will end. You will be gone,
or I will be gone. Your foot not up against my thigh,
my hand not warming your foot.
The winter won’t last forever.
This simple and blessed communion with you won’t last forever--
but for now I will sing my gratitude to the stars,
press my warm lips to your warm heart.
[Bob Coughlin / February 28, 2014]
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