You are not the eye-erasing beauty
of the sun splitting open the sea with morning,
but you are the green and purple glint
on a wave crest as sun ducks away into night.
You are not the electric-splash shock of
ice water in meltingpot summer,
but you could be the cool, smooth
surface of a palm.
You are not a fire, ravaging, devouring,
chewing and churning and spitting out black,
but you are a shawl, touching my shoulders tenderly.
You are not a symphony of drumroll clouds and thunder,
but you are the sound of rain.
You do not laugh like falling snowflakes.
Your words do not resonate like age-old wisdom stones.
You do not move with the grace of an almost-landing butterfly.
When you look at me, I know my eyes are opaque,
providing no windows.
But you are the lighthouse standing through the storm,
the summer breeze that lifts the flowers just a little