Wednesday, 7 July, ’21, Dear

My love, my laugh, Delicious Boy:
Paul Bunyan with your southpaw axe.
I've checkerboarded joy and weeps
all day over this. You young as a puppy,
all feet, your fractiousness slicked back,
delightful. I'm the kettle in your photo:
preggers with giggles, ready to whoop.
Bless your sis for this and thank her.
It's a queenly gift. She's my hero. It's tricky,
catching songbirds through window glass.
Her lumberjack jigsaw piece fits a hole
in your enigma and gives that part of you
to me on a platter, a side dish of pasta,
wine, a song I can hear if I try very hard.