Soft Years

You call me outside 
to see the fire you’ve stoked in the chimanea. 
We breathe in the aroma from smoldering embers. 

Your lips are warm 
as the crisp air stings 
around our familiar kiss. 

We touch the other’s flannel sleeve 
soft with age.This is our season. 
We claim it and call it our own.
Cheryl Murphy, 2008 ©


Happy Anniversary, Sol,
Shul