Before Christmas this Year I Loved You Once Again

I walked into the house
This day, ten days before Christmas.
You, your friends, Handel-ing the season at the Concert Hall
Me, starting to pack our van,
the holiday mobile we will drive to this year’s Noel near the Hudson.
“Vacation.”
I stepped through the doorway and looked and loved you yet again.
I met the scattered detritus of this year’s Christmas card which
though I helped write,
a little,
was your brainchild,
a cleverly thought out,
beautifully executed paper gift
to mail to friends and relatives.
I saw individually wrapped and labeled sachets full
of rose petals,
dried herbs
and your love,
gifts for our loves.
I saw stacks of paper
a box of wrapped gifts,
bits of ribbon and the other refuse of the season.
But I loved you again,
fell in love once more,
that dizzying, tear-pulling, heart-aching yearning,
another in a long line of loves,
when I saw your hand-drawn map on the floor,
the tracings of our walks in town
your eccentric,
efficient,
elegant,
paths up, down and across always different streets
to methodically make sure we see all the lights.
You found time today,
energy somehow,
forward momentum
today of all days,
to chart it out
on top of everything else.
And I loved you afresh
When I saw your drawing
On the floor amidst the rest of it all.