Love Song

The ancients would lift a clay spout to your lips— water and honey and wine. I give you milk, softened with wine, and swear you'll never hunger, never thirst while I'm alive. What suffering I can't preclude I'll soothe with singing: My future, for you not the greenness of a leaf but of the leaves on all the April branches. Fire, I give you fuel. I sweat and chop the wood. I tender forever in you who begin where I end as if your body is my body, your elegance my elegance. Sustenance, emptiness is lack of you, yearning is the road to where you are. You are the road, the where, the song, the hunger. Child, I give you sleep, I sing you there.