One Harold Bench

This
Has been
The summer
Of counting things.
You've been counting breaths
In your meditations;
I've been counting strokes per swim,
Steps to push the baby stroller
Over the hillside drive each morning,
Minutes to go before waking up.
Together we count the days, weeks, 
Months of our daughter's first year,
Our pieces of summer,
Days since we got here,
Days we have left
At last count,
Always
Less.