here we are, honey
we’re in westfield again
where the wind mercilessly
fills us with bark, with salt.

here, where the ice stabs
my digging fingers
unearthing the sea’s collection of trinkets
she’s saved since last february,
pleading that i come and find them.
they’re aching to be seen.

she’d forgotten about this one,
this teeny terracotta she offered
without knowing its home.
my indigo cutie is one of her favorites
for which she’s been searching fiercely.
i throw that one back to her
for safekeeping.

can’t wait to get back inside to you, baby.
wait for me,
keep warm.
i want to feel it.