the blue plate

it's horse country.
long fences
railed, stone houses
with trails of smoke
sleeved
out into the sky.
the hills roll with
tall grass, the blue ridge
mountains
in the near
distance.
the march wind is soft
as is the sun
on our faces
as we sit facing it.
the bench
cool against our legs.
we go through
it. we talk. we come out
of it, then continue
on
buying little, wanting
less,
settling on a small blue
plate
to set against the light
of our kitchen window
to remember
this day by.