I remember Saturdays

    before you,

    good and filled

        — but not fecund like this.

This evening glows with life,

    and your deep rose-heart blossoms

    under the falling sun.

Our chests are crossed with charcoal

        — remnants from last night's fire —

    and memories of taste and sweat

    stay with and guide me.

I suffer you slowly, joyfully,

    dancing with your heart (I'm barely tethered);

        we will, soon enough,

        rest,

            one and content.

I watch as you lay,

        back to ground,

        with heart clamoring for home,

    and I catch echoes of ancestors

    through my quivering bones;

from the rumble of soil —

        Nature's dream, growling from the earth

— to the surface of our skin,

the Great Dove's grace impels us to newness,

    and He warmly thrusts His way

    into our small home.