my love, he prefers the corner of the room, his feet upon the footstool.

my sticks they knit and click. he smiles upon the rhythm and frowns upon the faults.

the corner of the room is wooden and plain and the footstool a mere iron thing.

we sit in silence watching the stars reveal jewel toned colors of magenta, cobalt and topaz.

the silent moon shines out in maternal roundness, the spectrum sharp and piercing bends

snowy white to her gentle vibrance.

the wind howls up the wolf and winter and the freshwater thunders spring

the comforts are not so tangible, but peace stands guard and sings.

my love, he prefers the corner of the room, the angles of the walls curve, he hears the

bird nestle close to the house and he sees the children sleep in their beds.

we sit in silence listening to words of love I cannot articulate.  I knit the silk, merino, linen.

in lesser shades of the stars and in anticipation of my love’s glorious sendings.