He sat at this table,
Years ago,
Writing her letters
In a densely symbolic language
Only the two of them
Understood;
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
Beautiful.