if not always hope
with your heart and what it holds.
Follow in momentous footfalls
the way of your particular longing
until you find your lost beloved
bound up, tangled indelibly
in the world, her fragrance
found in everything
and everything found in her.
Where you recognize her loveliness,
that's where you find yourself
slow dancing with towels,
winking knowingly at ducks,
whispering sweet nothings
to spoonfuls of reheated beans,
purring at your shirtless reflection,
weeping over children's books.
Lost today in some old man's eyes
you'd seen but never noticed
all your winter prayers blossom—
one more chance, one more chance
to hold, to behold, to be held,
to be loved by your beloved.
Love letters grow shorter
and sweeter. Breakfasts grow longer
and sweeter. Moments grow longer,
and shorter, and sadder, and sweeter.