A key to the cabin Ava has not,
from when we broke up,
but a gust from the boot
of her kick whips through a crack
in the back door.
Anxiety races beneath my olive flesh,
warming to what’s left of a winter’s chill;
standing there, she is.
Ava’s jet-black hair cascades to the small of her back,
and the black of her dress
mesh well with the diamonds on her wrist.
A watch that of gold she holds,
bending to a knee, asking me to marry.
(© 2021 AC)