While we can

On the evening of—the call comes in
the children are pleading for tea, and I
step out to close the door a moment
behind me, our wild climb of garden
an ocean apart from—the process of
knots in the body beside you, known
these years growing together, flitters,
vows, infancy enough of a beginning
with plans to—the nettles lie dormant
in this advance of winter, bittercress
creeping on sprigs of thyme, ferns yet 
to unfurl, and I scratch away at our
impress of—the earth still, in wait
when we were young and all of this
not even the shoots of a thought, I
would say but that I am here and will 
be until—the kettle should have now
boiled, so I turn back toward the kids
in motion under the light of our bay
window and again to the dusk, grasp
for—the taproot broken at my touch
blind as it is, what solace I can offer
you in the growing dark, dandelions
will open anew, sunbursts until lost.