I remember the day you taped plastic
over all of the windows in our new home.
You said, "We'll be warmer this way,"
but with you I was never cold.

I remember then looking through them,
the world glowing white
in an opalescent haze,
and the snow slowly falling.

This was the same year the water rose so high
that we could no longer see the riverbank.
I remember nights dreaming of being washed away
in that great raging river.

I remember the drive to Grand Haven.
Losing our minds in the back seat,
while our friends expanded theirs
to Psilocybin.

I remember the Great Journey,
the stairs,
the sand,
the sky,
the mighty rolling waves.

I remember an orange
dropped to the ground,
and a kiss
among old friends.

I remember the fall we moved
into this new home,
and how by winter we had gorged ourselves
on cold days and sunsets.

I remember the blankets we hung
to help keep the warm in,
to keep out the light.

I remember the heavy red wool
a backdrop to our love,
dancing with the specks of dust
through pinholes of light.