Instead of talking about love this time,
how about an understanding
that we are completely unique,
and more valuable than we
are usually able to admit?
What is it that blocks our vision,
that stands between us and a view of
the treasures that we are—like everyone?
What storehouses of feeling and beauty
lay just on the other side of some
big unseeable force, standing in the way?
Other people see our gifts,
our irreplaceable way of being,
but this lumbering whirlwind,
this big brown creature, just out of sight,
simply will not let us pass.
Is there a way to confront this creature more directly?
Can we peek behind its curtain
when it is napping someday?
Would we see it then as a frumpy old bear,
only able to fool us
by puffing itself up
into a seeming force of nature?. . .
Or, instead, perhaps we should just gambol
along the parkway, hand in hand,
letting sleeping bears lie,
warm in the coziness of years of love
piled on top of each other,
like a skyscraper made of hotcakes,
down each one,
into our waiting mouths.