top of page
Pink Concrete



With you, my love, I can be still.

I can stop the doing, close my eyes, and feel the warmth of your fingertips next to mine and

know that I am worthy and cherished,

just as I am.

Love is entering the quiet woods together,
muddy hiking boots laced tight,
sweat dripping down our brows,

the Eastern Kingbirds and Song Sparrows trilling tunes that make our spirits soar alongside


When we visibly breathe in and out the dewy mountain air,

your breath becoming my breath.

Love is Tuesday nights when we receive our small shipment of oddly-shaped fruits and


the misfit produce from local farms,

and we make a guessing game of what some of the more strange-looking ones are;

before we baptize them in a stream of steaming water
and dice and boil and bake this collage of colors,
creating art that nourishes both body and soul.

Love is when the day is nearly over, sun disappearing behind the horizon in a splash of orange,

and we sit beside each other sharing stories.

Some our own tales from the day’s adventures, some from the pages of a favorite book—our life

chapters becoming more and more intertwined.

Love is picnics in the park with family and friends, where laughter and the barking of dogs and

babbling of babies reminds us that the simple, too, is sacred.
That these are the minutes that matter most.
And in both the moments of doing and moments of rest,

I choose to be by your side.

For it is together with you, my love, that I want to walk this earth and chase dreams,
and at the end of the road, when our hair is gray and our bodies tired,
I will still be holding tight to your beautifully-knobbed knuckles.

bottom of page