Conversing Near a Beaver Dam

Before I tell you about the beaver dam—
before I mention the way she looked at me that night,
how her eyes matched the sky,
and well before I even bring up the fact that I was nervous
and shaking in concert with the wind-blown leaves—

you deserve to know right at the outset
that this is a poem about love.

And as such I don’t blame you
if you don’t want to finish reading it,
because I will discuss things you cannot understand.

How could you understand

the way her laugh, her voice, and her song
blend together like a well-written symphony,
which each time moves me to standing ovations;

or how her touch, like September afternoon sunlight
never burns or chills, but always offers
just the right amount of warmth
without being a distraction?

You couldn’t understand them
because I don’t understand them.

But before I get back to the beaver dam—
before I get back to us standing there
watching our reflection ripple on the pond,
and how I couldn’t help but imagine us on a flag
flying triumphantly in the wind—

you should know that
the reason I’m happy to tell you about things
I know you won’t understand
is because I’m not writing this poem for you.
I’m writing it for her.

And she’ll understand because she loves me.
I already told you

this is a poem about love.