Perhaps the lover is the outlaw in ourselves
we don’t quite have the nerve to claim.
– Rosemary Sullivan
The first time I saw water more vast than Superior, water more
vast than my town, water migrating more intensely than my father worked
I learned that God was real.
The first time I saw trees that had endured generations, trees that
extended to Venus, trees that grew slower than a turtle crawls
I learned that God made things bigger than me.
The first time I saw a mother give life, the mother thoroughbred naked in the field,
my mother screaming and pushing, screaming and pushing in room 409,
I learned that God made us with purpose.
When I first saw you my cells rumbled, the surface of my skin reached for air,
my internal organs grabbed my bones for stability, you asked me for—of all things—
directions and I loved you instantly.
I guess opposites do attract, because you certainly defied my beliefs. It was not my intention
to confront the convictions that reared me; I had always been taught to follow my heart.
And if I seemed lost forgive me—I never learned in school what to do once I met you.
After this climactic turn in my journey to knowledge I searched for more natural signs
of the Divine to restore my mind: Water. Tree. Thoroughbred.
Instead, I found myself seeing God in your eyes, your hands, your heart—
proof I had chosen a love not given but made.