I look across the room and find you,
head held high,
learning what it means to hesitate,
to move your feet the way a mason scores stone.

With tentative steps you move in the line of direction,
a touchstone between the joy and the fuss.
Now your hand settles on mine.
I whisper, we’re in this together.

The tango buttons on us like an old sweater.
A miracle,
though some might call it common
as a table covered in white linen.




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