Poetry is the sincerest gift I could think of. For your birthday, a day shy from a leap day, I read a Wislawa Szymborska.
Perhaps a sensitive soul like Szymborska can understand why I have to do some tweaks to make the poem more particular and intimate: changes like teacup to mug, Swift to Oliver.
P.Z. Yes, I’ll introduce my beloved river to you soon. Soon.
Here we are, naked lovers,
beautiful to each other—and that’s enough.
The leaves of our eyelids our only covers,
we’re lying amidst deep night.
But they know about us, they know,
the four corners, and the chairs nearby us.
Discerning shadows also know,
and even the table keeps quiet.
Our teacups know full well
why the tea is getting cold.
And old Swift can surely tell
that his book’s been put on hold.
Even the birds are in the know:
I saw them writing in the sky
brazenly and openly
the very name I call you by.
The trees? Could you explain to me
their unrelenting whispering?
The wind may know, you say to me,
but how is just a mystery.
A moth surprised us through the blinds,
its wings in fuzzy flutter.
Its silent path—see how it winds
in a stubborn holding pattern.
Maybe it sees where our eyes fail
with an insect’s inborn sharpness.
I never sensed, nor could you tell
that our hearts were aglow in the darkness.