Pictures of You

Rain, gentle against the window, brought your face to me,

not conversing but going about your myriad chores.

Incomplete pictures: pins in your mouth as you adjust a hem,

hands flicking the needles in the interminable click and flow

of knitting or flour-covered as you lift them from the baking bowl;

you're waist deep in a marmalade-making cloud of steam or beyond all

communication with face down to the light of your sewing machine.

On rainy days, captive in the kitchen and wanting to talk, I sat there

bored. The dim light, condensation on the walls, the hum or click

of the never ending rituals of the kitchen were oppressive, and still,

as the rain’s million little thuds recall, we were close and happy

in each other’s company; the tasks were tasks of love, and those

pictures are my Louvre.