The sun shone through
the basement window, the same color
as that of a rose in an initial letter
of an illuminated manuscript, boldly
bathing both of us

in what offered itself up
as an eternal moment, as are all moments,
but this one clearly opening
in all directions about us,
with our standing beside your boxes

of framed prints and me holding
a bottle of a good French Syrah
I had just selected to compliment
the mushroom and brie frittata
and roasted vegetables I had just prepared

upstairs in the kitchen, both of us floodlit
in the brightening flash of sunset
filtered throughout the basement,
even the shadows cast along the walls
sun-streaked, with a luscious rose hue,

that will always appear to us as a page
in an opened book, always there
for us to savor, an illumination
to be remembered, clarifying for us
what is always important for us to see.