Love is Mundane

Love is mundane
all wrapped up in
a tender caress as
you pass by to
unload the dishwasher.

It's giggling over
soap bubbles
and squeals when
I turn the garden
hose at you while
watering the roses.

It's folding socks
late at night when
only we are awake
and little feet no
longer patter through
the house and leave
their shoes lying
on the stairs for us
to trip over.

It's dirty handprints
at knee-height
and messy kitchens
with cookie dough
crumbles on the floor.

It's conversations
late at night about
love, the universe,
the latest electric bill,
and how we want
a cat next year.

It's the moment we
stood waiting and
watching the storm
roll in and you turned
and kissed my cheek.

It's Saturday mornings
all twisted up in sheets
and reading stories
to the children
half-awake while you
make breakfast
and then we do the
laundry and hang it
out to dry in the sunlight.

It's those crazy
evenings when you
spin me madly
dancing to oldies
in the living room -
so much so we're
both crying with laughter.

It's winter evenings
curled in front of
the fire roasting
marshmallows and
reminiscing about
the time we found
a secret dell
and picked buttercups
to be arrayed in jars
along the mantlepiece.

It's growing old
and forgetting to
water the plants
in the window boxes
and laughing because
we look all wrinkly
and faded like old letters.

It's looking at a
grandchild and
seeing a mother's
eyes and father's
hands in someone
young and new
and vibrant with life.

It's waiting up for dawn
holding hands with
someone crossing the
bar and then weeping
folded in each other's
arms.

Love is mundane.

It is life.

© Eleanor Clark
15 July 2013