I waited so long for love
and suddenly, here it is
standing in the garden, hands full
of heirlooms hot from the sun.
Soon we’ll make a supper of them.
Salted slabs between slices of bread.
Your beard silvers. My hips ripen.
The mail piles up.
Phone calls go unanswered. Forgive us.
Our mouths are full of tomatoes.
We are so busy
being small and hungry and alive.
by J. Sullivan