Late Last Night

Sleepless after we made love, I searched

the house for everything that is you:

the blue bowl filled with ripe red cherries,

painted Minoan pots, African masks,

a sauce-splattered copy of Gourmet,

two new novels, a letter from our daughter,

and your black bag and appointment book

tossed at random on the painted pine table.

Outside, the bluestone patio warmed

my bare feet, and I smelled Casablanca

lilies and honeysuckle we planted last spring.

And when you found me stargazing

in the meadow, our soles stirred up

the scent of wild thyme, your face

in my hands again, the lines blurred

by starlight, Venus a crescent in the west.