poets say it better /

than i know how to.

there are little things,

that may for a while,

or a long time,

make me cry.

like you.

like all of the hope i have stored up in you.

like knowing that you are discovering the

combination of vegetables and your favorite meal.

and knowing what such a discovery may mean:

there is relief.

tour de force

you were not a choice, as much as you were a force that ran up and down my fingers, up and down my spine.

you were not so much a choice, as a chance wind, overtaken, swept up and left ravished dizzy and dazed.

and this was not so much yesterday as years ago but we are all still left collecting thoughts and examining why's of your tour.

and you are betrothed now, or perhaps you wear a thin strip of gold around your finger, right or left hand, depending on the custom.

and he now shudders at your name, even when heard, even when read in the holy book, to think of --

and here i am choosing a man worthy of choice. and it is slower and less like violent love and more like the slow unfolding of a story written in springtime, written in meadows, written for blooming.

and we walk in seasons of night and day and winters and spring. and you were august, hot and melting, and he is april, subtle and unfolding.

i am not so happy for so many changes, so many days letting him sit with me as i sew back together the tears of my inner linen.

he gives me silk.

but, i am happy for the choice. the moments of brief clarity sitting and choosing: this is how i shall live.

i shall live in silk.