Parachute

she smells of sage
and the binding of a new book
discovered in a dying bookstore.
she lets me in to read
when she is not afraid.

she builds things for a living
I asked her to build us a library
to read and grow old in
and a home on the pacific with a garden to
gather tomatoes and collard greens
with our weathered hands.

she dresses in safety.
a plain t-shirt. a
button down sweater.
flat leather boots. hair pulled back tightly in to a ponytail
and tucked. no makeup. no jewelry. nondescript CK underwear.

she paces around the apartment making copious lists
in perfectly straight lines
in a black moleskin.
she specializes in risk-benefit analysis
and excel spreadsheets

I run my fingers along the grooves
etched in her forehead
I notice them whenever she lifts her head to take a clear look at me

to love a woman like me, I know,
is her riskiest bet yet.
no mitigation.
no expectation of certainty.
just plain courage.