I would not be so bold to paint my love

As if there could a palette infinite

Be, or colors bright, rich or deep enough

To something more than base approximate.

Nor could I stoop to notes or song or phrase

Or sculpture, all just variants of sand

That marks with airborne brush strokes sifted days.

No, braggart love is that which on its own

Aspires to spectrums it thinks won’t perish

Unknowing its object’s singular tone,

Spirit, beauty, mind are what to cherish

Let no one believe shape, rhythm or hue

Could bear witness to my bold love – or you

 

— December 25, 2013