Often I love best what is in front of me.
In summer, I forget I love snow, love cold.
In winter, I forget I love green.
Given green beans, I forget I love carrots.
Given a warm dark night,
I forget I’m entranced by summer light.
Perhaps sometimes, when reading,
or skiing by the river, or singing, there is an hour
when I forget I love you. Then, when
I think again of your voice, your you-ness,
there’s a rush of remembrance
and I fall in love all over again,
my whole body vibrating like a bell,
wildly amazed you exist at all
and that I, somehow, against all odds,
not only know you but love you,
love you in a way that makes me feel
I could effervesce, could bloom
right through my skin. And I am
the luckiest woman in the world then—
lucky to feel it again, the humbling joy
of knowing love is so much bigger
than my attention, so much greater
than my capacity to hold.
Lucky to be at the mercy of love.
Lucky to have thought I lost you,
if only for an hour, only to find
love holding me, cupping my chin
in its gentle hands, turning me
toward you again.