As the seasons change, I realize there’s no one I’d rather weather the weather with than you.
In six months, the sun has sung the green leaves of the poplar trees red with delight and the autumn rays are finally solid enough for me to hang my coat upon.
You are the first crisp air I breathed in the summer and the last warm blanket I’ll clutch in the fall.
In six months, the chime has tolled last year gone and this year new and the streets which were briefly ours are now everyone’s.
You are frozen smoothie bowls and salty New England air.
In sixth months, I have made my peace with twenty-one and, as she waits excitedly, you are crossing the threshold to meet her.
You are a fallen tree over a creek, perfect for two “friends”, and a soft-clanging bell delivering her soliloquy to the listening sea.
In sixth months, the Earth has travelled two hundred and ninety-two million miles to spend each morning and each night lain next to the sun while I have travelled two thousand and ninety-two miles to be lain next to you.
You are a boot-tappin’ Appalachian folk song and that first triumphant forkful of Trader Joe’s gluten-free pumpkin bread.
And as the seasons change, I realize there’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.