To walk quietly with you in the rain,
the ferries calling their greetings
and farewells,
the blur of Ellis Island out in the fog,
taught me how every color becomes brighter in my mind
as it softens in my eyes.

This is why the New Year should not come
with the calendar
but simply arise from within
as all of our cardiac clocks and gears turn,
at their own pace,
until at last the cycle revolves
and the year is new.

The droplets and rivulets slide from the rooftops
and park walls;
they come to rest on your face,
so calmly receptive like the rest of you,
and I am reset;
ready to begin again.

We steel ourselves,
ready to fall,
knowing the rise will come.
We reach our redoubt: just a subway station,
but the rain makes it feel like so much more.
I am baptized in water you have somehow made holy.
My mind is silken and freshly made
and we are heading home,
running in our rain.

I wonder how long
it took me to understand that time
changes like everything else.

Because I remember when 1 minute seemed like a long time
to be stuck on time out, facing the corner of a whitewashed room
and yet 6 hours felt like no time at all
when I had a five page paper to write
and the city was cold
and my eyes were drying.

And with you
6 months
feels like a monument

As if the last half year is not just time,
not just minutes and hours and days ticked by
but also gold, alabaster, silver and diamond
it feels like something I would type up
in Helvetica Bold on expensive cardstock
as if to say
I DID THIS
and
SHE DID THIS
when many people,
such as myself
were whispering and shouting that it was impossible

And you’re still an enigma
for my time
because 5 minutes is a marvel
and 6 months is monumental
but forever
feels like no time at all.

You are some capricious catalyst
of continuum
and constancy.

You change everything all at once,
and always when I least expect
to be hopping on a train
or hike a mountain for 5 hours in the rain
or dance
or make love and have it mean something too
or be told I am special
and believe it too.

You read an old book
smelling the gum Arabic,
that ancient mix of grass and vanilla
breathing the short, hushed breaths I did
and I rejoice
with your every discovery
smile
with your every treasure
and wince
with your every tear
and there you are again
reaching across, around, and over time
to show me that you are there
doing what I did
loving what I loved
all over and once again.

And here we are
with half a year.

I will pretend that I did not remember it
and make you laugh when I say so
because I want you to learn
that me forgetting you is humorous
and ridiculous
and impossible.

Because time can change
and cause change
but never to all the empty spaces
filled with soot and dusk
which you washed out
and filled with sun and fire.

Here I am whole again
after a half
of a year
and it is all because of you.

Some things will always change
just like some times will always change
like the 3 minutes that grow when on the screen of a microwave
or the 6 weeks which stretch when spent apart from you.
But 6 months is something solid
something real
and can grow to 12, 24, 48 and on
but it will still be there
still reminding me
(and you)
that I did this
and will keep doing it
keep stacking halves
upon our two person whole.

I sit in front of fire
while you stare out at falling snow.
In many ways we are watching each other,
despite the many miles between us.

You are so soft, so simply bright
in the way you burn
despite your icy blue eyes
and your freezing cold fingertips.

I watch hunks of cherry wood crackle,
fading from red to brown to black,
and I cannot help but wonder
if you see me in falling flakes
as I see you in flickering flames.

Perhaps there is a frozen lake you have trudged past
with a smirk,
thinking of all the ice
I blanket my bed with,
only to have it so mercilessly melted by you.

Or maybe I am a fallen tree
you amble over, taking care not to break my branches.
I am not just torn and toppled,
but also unseen:
my chestnut and emerald now snuffed
by silent, muffled snow.

Yet I am still a mighty pine
and not some timbered log
as you navigate my wreckage with care.
I like to think that is when you see me:
in knobbly, solid roots still holding on with stubborn strength.

And then I am not just needles and bark,
but fallen ice,
now a part of some new whole.
And you are not just brilliant tongues of ruby and ochre
but also the gold of glowing embers,
and the black of burnished soot.

You are the fire and the fuel
just as I am the falling and the fallen.
There is fresh snow and rotten wood,
leaping flames and tired ash,
and we cherish it all the same.

I douse my fire
and you climb past your pine.
I ***** out a brilliant blaze with a half smile,
knowing it will not need to warm me
for much longer.