Forms of Love

Happiness

the metaphors you urge from me now are delicate things, curtains of lace turning in open windows, creases on pillows before heads descend
even the word "urge" is wrong, it's something less afraid, an urge is a muddy tendril clinging up the thigh, I feel ivy on old brick walls, a wren's nest high and safe
these are not the metaphors I expect to see with, but each old image lies when I look through it to you, no more murky lakes or troubled moons or tongues stung by thorns
I see sheets, not tortured, but pleased by our lingering, sunlight on two hands at rest, lips that tremble more when they speak than when they kiss
you are a tea cup, a ring, a daisy, the lightest step in the slowest dance, a garden song from the oldest memory, a happiness I don't know how to wear but somehow fits