Nearly a month in our new house.
The amethyst on the breakfast-room shelf
gathers the fragments to itself
of our stunned union. Spouse and spouse
and children, vagrants on a mazed hill,
careering blindly, till on a new
plateau, we look about, and know
our old familiarity still.
This precious amethyst has it all.
Unsaid, the names of our travelled years
are in those small forged crystal spears.
A two-hands fist of light, to recall
all, all our years, including this move;
with every later crystal of love.

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