Passion comes on loud
and sloppy and sudden, is something
that just happens—
like a six-
year-old kid's birthday party—
or the mumps.
But, at its quietest, love
comes across
much more like
fidelity—
not at all
grandstanding,
simple and slender
as a promise
when it's whispered,
something you
don't touch, but catch sidelong
glimpses of,
too steadfast
and unremarkable
to be a miracle;
like July fireflies
in the much more considerable
moments between flashes: no glitter—
or dusty dented attic boxes
a little too full of
Christmas ornaments to bother opening: no glamour.
It sounds like beautiful antique wind chimes
hung up in the distant
window of a closed shop,
smells like exotic garden flowers blooming—
at two o'clock in the morning,
when everyone's in bed and sleeping.