The Story of Love

​

​

call me a garden
my words are petals and leaves
my philosophies the arrangement of root and stem
hellebore at the feet of the rose says “ We are beautiful”
jasmine climbing the cedar says ”we are one”

​

call me the rain
my voice is the music of wind flowing among random droplets
my arguments are a distant thunder (arriving long after the lightning has passed)
dew falling from the branch  says “I think of you when you sleep”
each puddle is a promise fulfilled

​

call me the soil
my nouns are stones, my verbs the fall of trees
my adjectives, the hardening of blood and the softening of bone
I embrace the detritus of existence, 
saying “I made your favorite meal”
my grammar is a round; 
“life into death into life into…”

​

call me the honey bee
My wings are the timpani 
in a symphony of nectars
my dance is triumph dressed as confusion
to queens I say “I am your daughter”
to queens I say “I am your mother”

​

call me the swan river daisy
my shape is simplicity
my texture, a pillow for your cheek

call me the columbine
I am the blue of ever present sadness,
the yellow of a new sun, the white of curiosity

call me lavender
as aromatic as the patient witness
as fragrant as compassion

​

the currents of living and breathing
are my native tongue even as I
wield human words like
a novice with the blade

​

words are swords, they cut you
they cut me
speeches are armies beneath whose boots 
I am easily trampled
a garden is a story, the story of love
call me the story of love