colin’s grandfather speaks of the stone patio on which

we sit   stone that he hauled and hefted and fitted   of 

the energy he had   and the strength   we talk of hard 

work   of which i know nothing   of lumberjacks and soldiers

he speaks of his wife   colin’s grandmother   of her 

work   of which i know nothing   often holding the other 

end   but more often holding up her end quietly   of 

childbearing   of patience   of womanly things which are 

womanly in name only   i love this man   and i love this 

place   i long for fridays on the patio as a teen in love 

longs for friday nights on a couch or floor or bed   mining 

new treasures   i live for these hours of sunset and quiet 

companionship with a man six decades older than 

myself   for his words and his silence   for the live oaks   for 

the golden hills   for the absence of all that unnerves 

me in the city   and here is where colin and marketa and i

come together to drink wine   go dancing   come home 

silly and sweaty and happy   and marketa and i flop 

into bed to play randy games and drift into unconsciousness

i love this place   i love these people   and these words come easily