Oh, love, you have ten fingers,

a mouth, a skull in your head.

A predilection for candied

almonds, an ability to perform

calculus, eyes bluer than a crayon's.

What can I do to adore you

in the manner God would find

acceptable? How can I list

all your qualities, when my pencil

breaks with the least exertion,

and my memory melts like

cotton candy? Instead, I'll let

the earth calculate for me

the rain outlining your body,

that fills with everything that grows.