There is only one word on my lips tonight.
One sound echoing, to write itself.
The beginning and end of the poem.
The sound at my door, at my fingertips.
My body a loose weight, my limbs sinking,
To the length of Love with her firm ‘L,’
like a buttress, this constant consonant,
allowing my admission
of weakness, of flagging strength,
of not meeting my own measurements
for goodness, for competence.
And then, to follow, the roundness of her ‘o’,
the road I cannot waver off,
or vowel relinquish,
her circle, a wedding band
And then the ‘v’ like a stake in the ground,
an angle where opposing lengths come to join,
to make a cradle in the middle.
A place to rest the judgements
for which I seek her nodding approval,
and instead hear an entreaty to rest,
to feel her rocking hands, to rest in the ‘e’
forming a natural end.
The final vowel
which then leads us back to the beginning.
of this love,
and her gentle echo
at our doors.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry