I cannot give you the moon today, Love,
it’s a clown—faced balloon smirking
in the powerlines. And I cannot needle
the stars and make you a coat, black,
infinitely hotter than a cheap fleece robe.
I would coo but for the puffs of steam
cooing from the coffeepot. There are no
doves ticking on the awning today, Love,
no sparrows but the slow drain
of a half—clogged pipe. I can give you
my eyes, though wet with all I cannot.
I can give you my hands and a trembling
will. I can give you a stone and all
the stones welded there in magma.
I can give you a stone and all the small
and lovely stones, our igneous years,
that compel our love toward granite.
Image: Gareth David on Unsplash