their muscled backs pulsing against the wind.
Sometimes, I love you quietly,
as in the million, contemplative heads in a field of wheat,
each softy, swaying stalk whispers
the closest sound we have to cloud. Sometimes,
I love you the color of cantaloupe, and passionate
as the perfumed juice that drips from mouth’s first bite.
At night, I love you cerulean and hot pink,
your skin a kind of dusk and my fingers busy painting.
In the morning, I love you resurrected and full of glee.
I am on my knees, bending. I tip the cup of my heart.
I make an offering. In the morning, my love for you is prayer.