The gift of love means this: I want to share with you whatever I have that is good.
—John Powell, S.J.
I give you my favorite grey vest, the one made of wool
with two very small pockets in front just the right size
for chapstick. I give you my chapstick, Burt’s Bees,
as it is, the kind that makes the skin tingle a minute
after applying it. My secrets for perfect popovers:
Preheat the tray. Don’t ever open the oven door. Beat
the batter just until the lumps are gone. I give you the song
on my lips—today it’s the Tennessee Waltz. It’s not
the lyric I intend to share, but the simplicity of the tune.
How each time you hear it, it makes a new room. I give
you this chocolate I bought today, dark, of course,
with coconut. And this softness I wear inside my skin.
And these green eyes that see all of your flaws and your shine
and still know only to beam at you. My collection of Rumi,
Hafiz and Kabir. My fearlessness in water. This impulse
to hatch new dreams, to find comfort in darkness,
to create more space for love. These strong legs
that will walk beside you as long as you walk.
This wilderness growing inside my blood.