They say this soil is too tough for sweetness,
built on old bone, deep coal, and winter frost,
but they don’t know what grows beneath the brick.
I keep you tucked right where the marrow sits,
a ready wealth, like stringy liquorice in the dark.
Let the wind whistle flat across the ridge,
and let the market stallmen shout their trades—
we have a covenant made of plainer things.
You are the steady hand that steers the noon,
the fire that waits behind the heavy door
when the rain begins to slick the cobblestones.
There is a secret stamped deep into clay,
a seal of gold, a root that runs so deep
no spade could ever hope to find the end.
It’s what holds the town square straight,
what keeps the church clock striking on the hour.
I have your name written on the inside of my coat.
I carry you, a quiet, solid warmth,
deep in the honest middle of my chest.