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Posts Tagged ‘love’

 

 

 

The night is enormous—

big enough to hold us both

in a way that make us

seem close.

This is why I speak to you

through the stars—

not because I think

that they can hear,

but because I pray

you can.

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This, too, is love, the way the beans

reach for the fence, the way the fence

does not leave the garden. The way

plants long to be touched—how

it keeps them from growing spindly

and weak. How the spider plant

on the shelf drops tiny white petals

into the cups. You could say it’s just

nature doing what nature does.

I prefer to call it love, the sunflowers

nodding their brown faces east every

morning, the lilies of the valley

spreading their generous perfume.

 

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It’s invisible then, the sugar,

after it’s stirred in the jar.

No one would know it is there—

it looks to be only water.

 

But sweet it is, nonetheless,

a secret, a transparent rhyme,

a hidden pleasantness,

a shrine to the unseen.

 

You are my sugar,

the fuel that no one sees,

but I know, as the water knows,

what a gift it is to receive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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One Soundtrack

 

 

 

writing you a love song

with no measures—

it will take a lifetime to sing

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I tell myself this is how love begins,

with a grumble. A rock in the shoe.

The flowers dead. Sleet.

This is how love begins, with taunting.

With mud on its feet. It begins

when we can’t imagine loving.

It begins when there is no light.

This is how love begins. When

we’re too exhausted to fight,

and as we slump, a door appears,

and we can’t imagine not

walking through it.

 

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Don’t stop, she says,

and grabs my hand

and pulls it again

to her back. She

rakes it across

her skin and urges the nails

deeper in to scratch

some invisible itch

that she can’t reach herself.

 

In the thin light of vespers,

her face is more shadow

than shape. Still,

as my hand grazes

her skin, I make out

the place where her brow begins,

the jut of her nose, her angle of chin,

 

and she is no longer

nine years old, but some

timeless version of herself—

maybe thirty, or sixty,

or eighty-four, some year

when I am no longer

near to scratch

the unreachable spot.

 

The thought of it

makes me linger longer

than I normally do—

until her breathing changes,

until she is nine again,

her body curling

into her blanket,

her hand opening

into sleep.

.

 

 

 

 

 

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Unfinished Song

 

 

 

Tonight, I love you

the way the sky loves the moon,

the way trees

love their leaves,

the way loss

loves minor tunes.

 

Tonight, I love you

just as the sea loves the waves,

just as blooms

love their Junes,

just as welcomes

love doorways.

 

Don’t you hear

there’s a question in the air

and it smells like rain,

the rain that’s yet to come.

 

Can’t you hear

there’s a humming in the air

and it smells like rain,

the rain that’s yet to come.

 

Tonight, I love you

the way the earth loves the rain,

the way jazz

loves pizzazz

the way mornings

love champagne.

 

Tonight, I need you

the way the rain needs the sky,

the way blue

needs light, too,

the way questions

need their whys.

 

Don’t you hear

there’s a question in the air

and it smells like rain,

the rain that’s yet to come.

 

Can’t you hear

there’s a wonder in the air

and it smells like rain,

the rain that’s yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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