to Lisa
I want to write a love poem,
but I don’t know what to say.
For fifteen years I’ve said, “I love you:”
on the front porch of your parent’s house;
on the green chairs of the Luxembourg Garden;
this morning as I brushed your cheek going to work.
I want to write a love poem,
but the whirl of our day tosses me
between career and school and our children,
until our life seems a distant blur.
For fifteen years I’ve said, “I love you,”
and at the center of our twirling life,
often hidden by work, or lack of sleep,
each day writes the poem called us.
(February, 1993)
