She loved him
not just at this moment
or more than a year ago
not only when the sun shone
or snow smothered tracks
not because of remembered joys
of cool river water round them
not only because he said the words
and she matched them.
No, not these things only,
but every day, at all times, in the garden,
the shower, on a walk muffled in scarves,
in a moment of prayerfulness, sadness,
ecstatic reaching of summits, sharing
chaotic cooking, after bouts of irritation,
while digging up potatoes, dressing, driving,
even sewing pesky buttons on shirts,
brushing hair, grooming the dog,
reading a map,
finding a way
and the words to say
she loved him.