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