Love is a Rendering
Telling you how I love you
is like trying to find things
that haven’t been said
about the ocean.
My hands prefer to paint it—
affection, water—
sweeping, striped backgrounds,
turquoise and deep
salient greens,
silvery whites frosting
every liquid peak,
and there’s the sky
hovering above the seas
like a mother,
cooing and cajoling
smoother, smoother now.
You mustn’t tip the boats,
or dunk the sailors.
On the shore, wild
coastly rocks, and
the dark of cast-off
tree limbs
adding interest and balance
to the composition.
Further inland,
I love you like new snow
frosts the grass,
like blue melds with ebony
to make the nocturnal sky
sing midnight,
like the way those
ensuing wee hours test
the nerves of first time
campers
in their thin tents
along random pieces
of the Appalachian trail,
but fear doesn’t win,
dawn always triumphs,
breaking their sleepless faces
into chapped grins
as they whisper
I made it through I made it through
nothing will get to me or you.
I love you like that.
Our word is song,
lilt, flow.
Our word is comfort,
as in I knew you
before you were born,
before you were separate
from the great meld
of souls waiting to enter
their chosen bodies,
and someday,
when I need to go,
please don’t say
you lost me.
Know, instead,
that I live on,
around you
and beside you,
in your first
waking thought
as you chide the cats
for meowing before dawn,
and as you rotate the dishes
just the way
you know
they told me to do
and as you bless your gums
by flossing frequently,
and gratefully,
as you pull
all the way over,
leaving the phone
in the car
so you can stand and stretch
and take in the sunset.
That little rustle
you’ll barely hear
could be autumn leaves
swept along the dry ground
by the wind,
or it could be me
whispering
be present,
be present.
–Melinda Coppola