It comes rare mornings like the northwest sun:
the contentment of feeling blessed. Who provides it,
how it persists through clouds of anxiety and
former abuse—I’ve always considered little proofs
of God. Not unlike your eyes which are pure
as your soul, as the Clackamas River where we kissed.
I woke up this morning so content. Beside you in bed,
in the café, in the pew where we sang hymns together.
It was no longer raining when I left your house.
The Oregon autumn begun, night came early
as I cut an avocado, ate cold tortellini, and tried to recount
all of the times I’ve awoken this blessed by you.
It’s been a month and a day: short weeks passing,
cold seasons ahead, steady peace of being in love.
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