time

loving you
is like loving the wind
eventually it dies down
but it never truly goes away
and in nine years,
when i am thirty-two
and you are forty-one
and the ocean is still in our pockets
and the forest still sprouts mushrooms
and the little fish still bite
perhaps i will have learned
to whistle on tune
filling the wind with stories
that your children
and my children
will only hear
as they sink to bed at night,
the leaves rustling in a quiet breeze.