Let Me Never Count the Ways.
There are so many ways of making love: there is paying the bills
on time every bloody month so we don't owe interest. There is
interest racheted up for the fourth draft, for the twentieth telling of
a story. There is the tale never told because it would embarrass.
There is the coffee brewed at six when your hands are still huge with
sleep. There is the rosemary chicken sauteed when I am way too tired to
stand. There is the walk shoveled all the way down to the road. There is
the laundry done every Monday every week every year. There is the
football game recorded. The phone call blocked.
There is the tenderness that lasts until the trees turn to leaf mold.
There is the care that surrounds and laves the sore back and weary
shoulders but let's go for freedom's sake. There is the love
that stands guard and the love that keeps quiet.
Yes, we make love in bed and on the couch, but we also make love out of
toast and nails and vacuum cleaners, out of needles and thread, out of
ink and kitty litter, out of hours and days given not because we must
but because we still want to.