I do not love you
as if you were a saltrose
topaz or arrow of carnation
or other arrangement I might
place on our kitchen table
No, I love you as the orchid on our kitchen sill
who, in our darkest months
blooms triumphantly, without warning
breathes floral tones into our simmering
pea soup on the stove
and later relaxes with a soft exhale
her petals released into our sink
I love you directly
without pride or reason
out of habit and with intention
my favourite meal, the scent
of you cooking dinner at the stove
You are as natural to me as the
wild thyme and overgrown mint
I pull from my garden and you
plant into our dinners
you are as invigorating as
the winter winds on my cheeks
I love the handful of salt you
add to every meal
