Some see you in the flowers
or thunder.
I don't.
Some see you in mothers
or children.
I don't.
Some can see you in a book,
or impassioned speech.
I can't.
Your hand covers the flower
as you make it
and I see only you.
I see you call the mother to love her children
or the preacher to live the speech.
You enrapture me
and I lose all else.
You love me
fiercely,
tightly,
now.
Then I am lost in you,
dissipated,
like incense in a vast church,
floating without care,
in love.
Then you gather me together,
and re-form me,
arms and legs,
with feet on ground.
You give me a loving embrace
and send me out.
To where?
How have we served you?