I’d like to live with you
In the valley northwest of town,
Between pines rising
And falling to the river.
And the things the stones say
To the river passing through.
And in the valley where we live—
The thin light
Of mornings pour down through branches
Like creeks that flood into our house.
And sometimes, afternoons, from the small kitchen,
You sing,
You sing by the window.
And your voice floats at the windows.
And if you didn’t love me, I wouldn’t mind.

– After M. T.