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April 6, 2005 - A poem about Love


It’s not
about love.
Or sexuality.
It’s about the way we fit.
Like the turn of stream that clings to mountainside
or heirloom keys in Grandma’s hand
Like pillow dip for tired eyes
or children’s palms at Christmas time.
It’s not wanting.
Or desire.
More like embers in the glee of coal
and clustered stars that sing for soul.
It’s the last piece in the jigsaw
It’s the shipping news at night
It’s the words I wish I’d said.
We just seem to


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