Summer gave way to fall. Leaves changed, and the rules did too.
I said, “No matter what, I can’t wait to see you.”
How do we measure the love in our lives? For example,
what is the exact heft of my husband saying I deserve to be happy?
How does it balance with my beautiful friend, who said,
“You are very important to me,” then pulled our bodies closer,
my ear warm against his shoulder, while the East River washed away
the week’s pain? What scale could bear it?
How do we weigh each moment? How do we carry our love,
sometimes heavy, sometimes like air?
Yesterday, I cried by the water for a few good reasons and a few not.
Today, I floated—all the love buoyant and raising me into the sky.
Everything seemed small from up there—even my worries.
We could carry it all together, I thought.
I wish I understood the mathematics of tenderness.
I do know autumn came, the rules transformed—maybe only for now.
I said, “You matter to me,” and the gray clouds
were lined with gratitude. Every damn one of them.