Thursday, March 14, 2013

not in time for Valentine's...


If I’ve learned to love, that doesn’t mean you were my teacher, that your songs
made me weep or laugh or run off to fight in a foreign land; it doesn’t mean
your touch persuaded, your kiss mesmerized, your warmth

released an urge to brighten spring like an innocent forsythia. Long before that
I was yours. Long before the first Friday or Saturday, I was your Sunday, but
unnamed, unknown as lyrical lines from an unwritten language about to well

into words. I’d trusted they would come, that I would find them or collect them,
insignias offered by dogwood and fern only you could interpret. I bring them
to you now, as if I were an echo of the love you were about to speak.

                                                B.Koplen 3/14/15

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