for Ginger
It doesn’t matter how long it has been.
Most any night, I can pick up my guitar
and my fingers will find their way to fret
and strings, and my voice meet the melody,
so familiar: “People smile and tell me
I’m the lucky one . . .”
The picking pattern is muscle memory,
which is my working metaphor this evening,
twenty-one years on since the first time
I saw you (I had my guitar then, too) and
we just began what has become a lifetime
of love together . . .
So even though we ain’t got money,
I am still so in love with you; I’ve learned love
from you, with you. The song and dance
of togetherness moves my heart in ways
as familiar and surprising as an old
friend of a love song . . .
You’re the girl who holds the world,
as you hold my heart, with tenacity
and tenderness, the one who is home,
who finds me in the morning as we rise
(you can sing along) and tells me
everything’s gonna be alright.
Peace,
Milton
