I look up from the umpteenth draft of this poem to watch

You prepare the shelves you are building for our books.

How deftly you saw through the knots and sinew. A swatch

Of worn out sandpaper and drill bits lie next to hooks

You’ll use as anchors on our crooked wall

While above you a school of salmon leaves swim

Away from their tree, against the wind. It’s fall

And you know this light won’t last, but you dare it to dim

As you pry off the lid of stain. I cannot understand

What makes you stay when I’ve never built you a thing

As solid or useful, by my own hand—

Just these hills of rough-hewed words which refuse to ring.

I tap on the window. You startle but point to the shelves,

Our moment read then slid back, to keep for ourselves.