How the Earth Loves You

Photo credit: click from morguefile.com

One day, perhaps when you are

in your forties, he is at your door

with a spring of daffodils.

Another day he bears lilies,

or jack-in-the-pulpits,

every day a flutter of fresh petals

and another scent whispering

at the skirt of your hair.

He seems disconcertingly traditional.

He brings roses, for instance, red ones.

You are bemused.

You look past him, sheepishly,

to the shapes of clouds,

to the paling blue sky.

When your eyes return from flight

you see your hand is bleeding,

you are clutching a sprig of thorns,

and he is gone.

He returns with fat red tomatoes,

waxy green peppers, a peach pressed firmly,

gently, from his palm to yours.

You can still feel the scars

from his roses. Your hand retreats.

Your fingers brush.

Your breath like a wave curls under, tumbles,

pulls back. Your belly tenses.

You are surfing, barely skimming the sand,

an unspeakable fear swelling your tongue.

Do not speak it.

This is what you were made for,

the heat of his gaze on your fore-arm,

burning your cheek.

You feel the slack first in your knees,

then your back. Do not succumb.

The best is still to come.

In the fall, he leaves in a glorious swirl

of gold and rust, amid the chatty travel songs

of migrating birds. You ache in his absence,

raking at the unreachable pain

in your chest. When you think of him,

you balk at his easy certainty,

his knowledge of your desire.

You delight in the melting snow-flakes

that catch in his hair.

You sigh at how his breathing undulates

under the white quilt. It is enough to lie

in bed on a slow Saturday,

to know he will come, his cool palm

stroking your belly, your breasts,

unexpectedly clutching your breath

as if it were another bouquet.

Do not hasten his wooing.

He will come soon enough.

You must not speak his name.

Only when you slip life's pearls

through your fingers, like a rosary,

counting the day after day

of his unfailing courtship,

when you have ached for him

in all the little things - in how you walk,

how your fingers probe a place for seeds,

how your cheek presses to his hard belly,

how you touch the mound where new life stirs —

only then will you be ready,

the light will break through

and the darkness, together,

and you will understand, finally,

who it is who has loved you

all this time, so well.

~ David Waltner-Toews