Nights like this you could tell me time
you. Tell me tonight has always happened
and always will be happening, since nothing
I know any longer says No. Whisper it
and I would believe you. Tonight the breeze
cooling us comes from the place where dreams
are harbored. Say this moment when winter
swivels into spring is genesis writ small,
say light is the center of darkness
and I would turn toward it like a flower,
following your hand across the heavens
as it finds the north celestial pole.
And, it wouldn't be Valentine's Day without a Neruda poem. We should all be so lucky to have a love like this:
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.