The First Thing I Noticed

The First Thing I Noticed

(“For this is the gospel message that you have heard from the beginning: that we should love one another.” 1 John 3:11)

I thought it was love when I tried to
twist your eyes around to see mine.
I thought it might be too late or too long
or never happen at all
if I waited until sunshine
lit the path open between shadows.

I insisted too often, covered up too much,
misheard the lyrics and assumed the world
was just like I imagined in my luster and my lusts.

If I started over I would love like water
and wade simply along the banks. I would
see you like air and not mirrors. I would
listen like a novel and not essays.
If I started over I would be loved by water
and let it seek its own level. I would
float upon its crystal waves and never flail.
I would
befriend like dolphins and drink the rain.

I think it is love when every banquet
is smiles and eyes or tears and salt.

 I think it is love when it finds you early
and you find it late.
I think it is love when “forgiven”
is the word that stops the shivering and
ends the infinite loop where fiery fear
refuses to surrender to peace.

The first thing I noticed was how the ocean embraces
the wrinkles and inches we thought everyone saw.
And the sun splays its quiet orange across the each
silent evening’s wave.