Shelter

By: Eric Hagen

There is an outline in the frame of my door,
half-caved in on herself, curls falling
to cover her face, hinting only shadows of lips
quivering and teeth clenched like the cold world
come down around her.

She begins by way of apology, a rapidly shaken
head bowed, trying to make an exit. “I’m sorry,
I know you must be busy,” and “I shouldn’t have come”
A small hesitation in breath, “I’m sorry.”

What can you say to the leaves shaking in spring breezes?
That sunlight’s warmth exists even in dark places, the way love
seeps through root and soil to feed the soul, it’s wanting to grow
through the guarantee of storms?

She steps forward like petals turning to face the dawn, I assure her
there is nothing I am currently doing that cannot wait. I watch
as thunderheads build, her eyes flashing, then saturating
as masks of happiness we were both taught to wear are pulled away.
Spring showers roll across cheekbones, down the valleys
carved by the weight of long nights,
arguments between divorced houses and lost sleep.

I cannot do anything but keep her roots down, waiting
as we seek shelter from the weather, knowing
like so many others, she will need this to survive.