Origins
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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