Literature
love like ours
I think about her
and I recall birdwings midflight,
a slow caracol on a blade of grass,
the last sip from a coke can,
quiet evenings with a good book,
sabbath afternoon prayers, an uplifting sermon.
I knew,
because of her,
that love wasn’t
a forced chore
or spoken words
and instead it was,
more than actions,
a general attitude
of compromise
and care.
I recall how,
for us, love was a river’s flow,
the ring of waves on stone
and rock, the low hum of water
trickling down the mountain slope
tickling the grass at the edge of the shore;
our love was natural, but it was myth and lore
and surreal, too unreal to be real.
and