Time

I do not know how long you stood,
leaning against the gate,
watching as I worked on hands and knees
to tend one more bed of lettuce
before the sun sank from sight.

I do not know how long you waited,
silhouetted against the sky,
before the dogs bounded from the porch
to excitedly greet the man they knew,
though you had never seen them.

I do not know how long I paused,
fingers still in the earth,
as I envisioned how the years had added
soft crinkles and laughlines near your eyes
and scars and calluses on your hands.

I do not know how long we stood,
leaning into one another,
before you smiled into my hair and began
to gently tease me for my meticulousness,
every detail of our home so carefully planned.

I do not know how long I waited,
your name in my mouth,
as I built the foundation and the framework,
planting with quiet faith and patience
the seeds for many happy years.

I do not know how long you journeyed
to slip your hand into mine,
arriving just in time to aid the harvest,
like a spring bird returning from the south,
with your shadow made of sun.

I do not know, and I do not care,
for with your arrival, time has disappeared.