Your name. That’s one thing I know, and I’ve learned
to call your name when I do not know what to think, which
is often. Not that I believe you know more than I, but
because I am happier to be alive when you smile, and often you do.
That I know. And that sunrise this morning was the color
of rose petals. That butter and sugar and flour constellate
into edible joy when baked with vanilla and pecans.
That there are no panaceas, and that love does not conquer all.
Love, however, has conquered me, and when I stand
beneath a scimitar moon I imagine it carving into your eyes, too,
and I know that you know that I do. How a woman learns
to speak in twilight tongues with crepuscular verbs when regular
words won’t suffice. How silence is sometimes the only place
where we meet, and how sweetness is often too sweet. I know
that I know nothing. That everything turns given time. I know
that tonight I love you. Field of soft snow. Chatoyant stars in sky.