Thirty-Six and Another Bouquet

When I paint guitars on leftover wood scraps, 

I’m really painting you. 

Your contours shape a landscape, a mountain

range, a forest of colors, a jungle of dreams. 

And the scraps of wood become words grown

from letters lost, fallen off the page, discarded,

then rescued in correct-o-types; there are

really no mistakes.

And the characters dance in a forest of little

conversations, sweet nothings that always add

up to more than more.

And when the warm winds push the evening

into submission, we can listen to the moon

whisper to the trees, and dance on

waves—heat blown down the canyons—but

it’s okay, 

no sirens tonight, except for you, walking

through the moonlit shadows. 

And when I sing a brand new song for you, I’m

really singing a song to you; to all the little

things you do every single day. 

And to all the real big things you make like

flowers that bloom and chocolate cake, the ebb

and flow, the give and take, 

and every bit of love we make because of love

we made together all those years ago.

Thirty-six makes an even three dozen;

another bouquet of roses, paintings, poems,

and songs. And each rose, painting, poem,

song is still, and always will be,

all because of you.

May 27, 2014