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.