It was warm today in our house by the sea,

the smell of chili,

bread rising by the fire.

Outside, the wind was howling.

Birds shivered on the wire

and a few leaves dangled

against the coming storm

before falling to the piles of death around us.

Beside me, you were slicing broccoli

and did not see me take a breath

and step away with a carrot in my hand

and go to this quiet place inside

to look out at the pathless land

before me: meadows to be crossed,

fields to be sown and beyond,

huge hills to climb and forests

filled with whip-poor-wills

and dark places.

When I returned and saw you

slicing onions, humming,

unaware that I had gone away--

(although you smiled when I said hello).

I had no words to let you know

I was coming back to get you,

to take you with me,

to say I had seen the life before me,

had looked down at my feet and at the clouds

drifting their indifferent ways,

had sniffed the air and felt the coming fall,

had taken one deep breath from those remaining,

knowing now I want you with me

facing forests and climbing hills

like Jack and Jill

with buckets in our hands,

not afraid of tumbling.