a metaphor for love and other things

i tried to love you

like a fist

like a knife

 

but your love was always

that of berries growing

softly and slowly

on the vine

 

and my love,

well, it always came

with teeth bared and ready

to taste your blood or mine

 

but your love was always

the fresh smell of grass

and dirt after the rain,

where i’ll stay outside

even though my socks

are wet inside my boots

 

and my love,

well, it held a knife

like a promise and a prayer

a welcome and a warning

 

but your love was always

patient and kind with mine,

held my hand and

cupped my face, bristly whiskers be damned,

like i was something precious

and worthy to behold

 

and my love,

well, standing there with you,

it threw up the white flag

and tucked the knife

safely into the soft

leather of your boot,

resting there beside the warmth

and life thrumming 

under your skin