We made love to the pancakes,
butter slowly
melting,
maple syrup
caressing each stack,
blueberries so
ripe, they burst
into juice at the
slightest touch.
I don’t think we've ever had
pancakes as good as
those.
But, then again, neither
have we had
a night like the
one we’d spent—
so cold, that after pitching the tent
we got straight
into the sleeping bag,
layers of clothes
still on,
and huddled
together all night.
We rose in dawn’s frozen
light,
threw gear into the
car
and searched for
warmth.
Love changes over
the years,
gives way to the
pleasures of comfort.
Perhaps it’s best
that we’ve never
found that
restaurant again.
