The House of Love

for Hannah and Charles on their wedding

You opened the door,
you took a deep breath,
you crossed the threshold.
Today, another breath,
another threshold.
You close the door,
making your choice:
this life, not that one,
here, not there.

In the house of love,
there is a bed, of course,
but perhaps more important,
there is a table. Some days
you will sit across from one another,
drinking coffee, with sun flowing
through uncurtained windows,
and orange cats drowsing
on tender cushions.

Other days, ugly words
may hang in the air,
while sleet slashes the panes.
You may feel paralyzed
for long moments,
with everything gone sideways,
and wonder if the house will stand.

Then one of you will reach
across the surface of the table,
past the napkins and salt shaker,
yesterday’s mail, sheets of music,
a laptop charger, a length of fabric,
and gently tilt the world
until the house is level again.

Often, you will cook up something spicy
and eat it at the table with dark beer
and music in the background.
Beyond the windows, the white squirrel
will tend to his squirrely business,
the peppers will change from green to red,
the flowers will open, then close.
A favorite song will start:
you will rise and dance.

In this way, you will continue
to build the house,
the life, the love,
the home that is your address
in the overwhelming world.
Whenever you look at that face
across that table,
may you always think,
“There is my beloved.”