hearth of language
Set the table, and let the light fall,
cut the bread, cost nothing but time.
Read my face for the story—
for and, or but, yet so—
we keep finding ways to meet.
A few laughs shared,
a lot of pauses filled,
twenty of those small gestures
put us back in step.
So often, many times,
and always once more,
my hand set beside yours,
the rhythm unchanging,
the word read aloud together.
Not grand, not distant—
just the steady cost of care,
the hearth of language,
the warmth of being here.
.
