Ill-Fitting Finery

Seventeen seconds
to seventeen years.

The first expired
as I mined for gold flecks
sparkling in blue eyes,
tick-tocking against
the white evenness of teeth
beneath your smile.

They were an unforgettable nothing,
ephemeral fireworks
foreshadowing the effort of the rest.

Exertion, struggle and even drudgery,
ill-fitting finery
for something as elegant as love,
but the polish that gives its glow.

You’ve pulled stones
from my pastures
like some hard-luck farmhand,
piled them in endless mounds
and always find another.

I’ve boarded the windows
to suffer your storms,
survived each time to become
more carpenter than weatherman.

Yet here we are,
seventeen years or seventeen seconds …

I’m still choosing you.

© 2021 Mike Porter