Maine

Those cold nights 

biking home in the dark,

the stars were gems 

bright enough to slice through 

the belly of the sky.

I remember so many sleeps

tucked into bedding

that never got the job done.

We lit candles

to bring some semblance of cozy 

to those frozen rooms,

squirrels hibernating in the walls.

Home was in shared books,

the edges of their pages

torn and yellowed from busy fingers,

or in kneaded bread,

or in a harmonica’s croon.

The snow colored our days stark.

We ate ‘til our stomachs were full 

and sipped tea to warm our insides.

But even all of that couldn’t bring Spring.

Only patience, some solitary days 

and

conversations held

lying on wool blankets,

wondering aloud if those stars 

mark the limits of what we are.