Your hands, big,
Tied with a school girl’s fat, red, yarn, hair ribbon.
In white craft paper,
All but a pink hand cut heart.
The choice of such poetic wrappings,
Crisp white shirt, tied, but not bound in convention,
In the old Pontiac Lemans.
The color of snow salted streets
Sans the places covered in great spreads of rust-
Like summer picnics.
In that timeline of travel,
We were at the beginning.
February 14, 1984,
The cold blew.
Midwestern air, pressed to windows
Witnessing our exchange.
Town gossips and matchmakers.
Blind to all others, our breath fogged the glass.
Car seats stiff and hard,
A time capsule with a back seat as big as a house.
The papery white package
The shape of a book,
Light in my hands.
What did you want me know?
What would I learn?
The anticipation of something great.
Curiosity and fear
In my chest, a palpable throb,
Be still my heart and head.
There was still the business of the old car.
It was a gamble.
A leap of faith.
You, handsome by all standards.
The wind found its way in little spaces like whispers.
Over the years
I have searched and found
School girl’s fat, red, yarn, hair ribbon.
to lovingly wrap again,
Around, and around in.