first moment

Romance painted the morning cottage shades of complex sunrises. The ceiling was a soft threading of old wood, speaking of centuries that were well past. The smell of crepes waft through the room where I sit. I look out of the windows you must have opened when you awoke. The sound of the old world whispers like melodies, carts creaking, dogs barking, roosters crowing, children playing. A village of history frozen outside, and you are inside creating warmth with your presence, the only movement in a world that has stopped for us. I awaken and slip on my white robe. The kitchen floors are cold and I giggle as I run out to the room where you await me. You stand with your back to me, singing softly as yellow sunbeams hit your thick mussed hair. You turn in mid-note, laughing with arms outstretched. You are golden and perfect, and flour fills our embrace from the cooking you did this morning. I think, as all of this comes about, how perfect to be sitting in an old home filled with rich history, how perfect to have woken up to a time that has frozen still just for us, time ticking backwards for this chosen moment. How beautiful to wake up to your face singing in the kitchen, sun stroked with the light of day, incandescent and young again. How perfect that we are here in Anghiari, making history in the Tuscan countryside with our decadent silly crepes on a day that was made just for us