It was the type of day Wellington is infamous for:

rain slanting into the pursed and puckered faces

of harried pedestrians


and I, out and about with my secret

that in the tall towers where the wheels

grind slowly


a thing not made of commerce

a growing not spurred by market forces

an investment not subject to whims and crises,


but a spark ignited by two people

laying themselves open to love

and hope and dreams and


schemes sometimes lost sight of,

was fanning the flame,

the head, heart, flesh, bone and wairua


of a life

taking root in my beloved's belly,

a life long longed for


a life

whose existence sweeps before it all petty irritations

and affixes itself on my face


as a big stupid grin