by Nicholas Johnson

When you came and sat on the edge
of my bed, lowered and raised your voice,
I knew your voice was the best medicine.

It conjured up visions of our recent holiday,
the houses spread out at random,
the jazzy blues of the meadows
where the inhabitants always awoke at dawn
with the tint of dawn in their faces.

In the small mirror
on the wall I could see the shape
of things to come, previews of coming attractions.
We kept going off separately but always
came back to what you called our
Contemporary Honeymoon –
where each day we could pick a few more
ripe apples from the crippled apple tree
we fought so hard to save.

Originally published in The Same, vol. 6, nos. 1-2, Edited by Philip Miller, Fall / Winter 2007, p. 1.