is not the prairie crocuses I planted
by the cracked back step, or the raspberry

vines nodding against the backyard’s
weathered fence. Neither is it you

in my Willie Nelson concert shirt
eating frozen waffles, careful not to dribble

maple syrup down the front. And it’s not
your knees turning in sleep almost missing

my groin. Not the toothpaste tube’s
cap put back, or how you turn my music

up sometimes, that the Honda’s oil
got checked and topped. No, today let me say

love is violin strings and your dark
hair combed down. It’s honey.

Sinatra, flowers, candy-grams. Lipstick
on the mirror and whatever else

it’s supposed to be, so that if all goes right,
tomorrow, we’ll be back to normal, sweet

sweet normal, when love again
will mean everything.