I’m not much of a love poet.
I write poems because I like to hear myself talk,
and I am pretentious enough to enjoy my own stories.
Oftentimes, I just babble.
But maybe this time, I can choose to dabble–
and I will write a love poem… to the world.
You see, when I was first consumed,
blue eyes bloomed, I could not presume
to understand – any of it.
Hands outstretched to a voice I didn’t know
but somehow recognized deep down.
Infant arms too fragile to hold up the world,
yet desperate to reveal the Earth’s secrets, disguised.
Now, a view confined to a child’s eyes
is nothing if not insular.
However, life as a child was, in truth so much simpler–
Fighting for a slice of dessert,
instead of fighting to live.
Fighting for a later bedtime,
instead of fighting the will to drown in my own mistakes.
But this love story does not have a tragic ending.
Without mistakes, humans don’t have the chance for mending.
And I know the person I was
can look to the future and admire the person I am.
Because now, I see the world in all its splendor,
and I am in love with the wonder I live in.
“Beware of the rose-colored glasses,” they say.
But I see the world colored in vibrant saturations,
and even if that is not what it holds,
I never want to go back to a narrowed view so cold.
Infinity at my fingertips,
yet still contained in the stem of a tree.
That tree reaching down,
roots grabbing the earth, pulling it toward me.
I can lie upon that earth and look at the sky,
marveling at the sounds it makes–
the colors forming in a bird’s song
as they swim among the clouds.
Did you know that seahorses mate for life?
Because when you find that perfect one that all of you sings to,
how could you write a lyric for something else?
Look, listen, and feel–
all of life sings to me,
and I am writing back a love poem to the world.
—Make no mistake, though–I am no Shakespeare.
If I am to write a love poem to the universe,
my words would have to rival the bond between Romeo and Juliet.
And even Titania, cast upon her midsummer’s night spell,
would pause–
and listen to words as fine to describe the world she lives in.
How can I compare?
Fret not, though, for I have enough arrogance
to title my poem in French–
the so aptly named language of love.
“Je ne parle pas français.”
I don’t even speak French.
But remember, I am comparing my work
to the poets of old…
How could I not, when I tell of a love great enough to hold
all of their stories?
“J’écris un poème d’amour au monde.”
—I am writing a love poem to the world.