At least a few times a week
I feel a faint breeze brush by
my cheek,
and the gentleness of its embrace
across my face
seems to serve as a symbol
that love can be
as simple
as air adorning
my dimples.
But,
leave it to me
to complicate love;
to mistake and forsake
a gift from above
for a big brown bag of worry
to be carried.
It’s just scary.
I greet it
warily,
because it speaks the language
of my hurt;
I feel it lifting up my skirt,
and the wind whispers,
“You are vulnerable.”
I’m quite sure
that God is love
and we’re supposed to fear the Lord,
yet sometimes love strikes like a sword,
and my blue-hued blood turns crimson red
at the thought of being adored—can’t afford
to run dry
so how shall I know
if I’m a cowering crow,
or if prudence prowls
underneath the towels
of my fears?
Leave it to me
to complicate love.
Leave it to love
to complexify me.
Tides of the Enigma 