Far too in love for practical purposes

I would uncover my love gently,
the way hesitant clouds unveil the moon.
The way your body hunches forward wisely,
protecting it's secrets
until relaxing into a touch that's safe.

I would display my love slowly,
the way roses creep into bloom
with sharp, precisely-placed thorns
for those who carelessly seek entrance
without an invitation.

I would pursue my love cautiously,
stalking her
as the leopard treads lightly for miles on padded feet
sniffing the air,
in no hurry to pounce.

I would gradually expose my love's shape,
trimming one by one
what branches obscure clear lines of passion.
Often stepping away for fresh perspective,
not afraid to put down my pruning shears
and leave it for days at a time.
Tall trees grow slowly.

I would study my love with humility,
in awe of what moves within me.
Poignantly aware of that which I did not produce.

Wherever I choose to look,
without or within,
I am confronted by miracles
set in motion through forces unknown.

My love is a miracle.
Much bigger than me,
a ferocious tide
whose waves
roar
into every clinging
insecure
place of my body,
crashing again and again
into unrelinquished doubt
and the illusion of control.