I sit in early morning with the one I love
our altar candle brighter
than the sunlight spreading on the lawn.
We are broken.
We have fallen under plow blades
and been planted into one another.
We trust one whose face we’ve never clearly seen.
In the northwest corner of the dining room
still within shadow
I see the outline of a body made of light and shadow.
Under a photograph of earth taken from the moon
someone is standing
someone who will not intrude
but whose hands are always raised in blessing.