Tuesday’s Child

He sat at this table,
Years ago,
Writing her letters
In a densely symbolic language
Only the two of them
For every real love
Is an entirely new language.

The truth about love is this:
It forms little cultures and
Subcultures wherever it
Can take root and bloom.

In her eyes, he was a perfect
Tuesday’s Child —
Full of grace in thought and gesture,
While to him,
She was Summer and the sun
And the scent of a cup of coffee
Whose ethereal steam was
Destined to touch the sky

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