You tucked the wool

into your brown coat,

rucksack, old suitcase,

 

the sharp chaff of hay 

 

on your clothes. In another country,

you walked cobblestones

 

with your wife, holding

 

the skeins, thinking of me. 

This was the ember

you blew into, our orange

 

sparks in all our midnight skies.

I wasn't thinking of you. I weeded

 

my garden, slept with my husband.

There was no longer a you

I slipped into my nightgown, ran

 

across my lips. I had abandoned

 

all our old tricks: your hands

full of white blooms, my dark blinks.

 

                       But you returned 

with your bright heat, a forgotten 

 

memory, stood at my door, drenched 

with the thunderstorm’s sad omens. 

 

This was your offering: 

two skeins of wool, rain-blue, 

 

ties wrapped like new lovers.