How many drops make a river
where silver bellied fish flash in the sun?
How many make the puddle in the pothole
where a robin splashes in the rain?
For that matter, how many
make this mug, make this spoonful,
make a cup, make a kettle?
How many make a spring storm,
that soaks the winter weary earth?
Don’t ask about the ocean--
it’s futile to guess.
What is one more drop,
or another tear that falls?
©stephanie g pepper, 2022
For Brian, on the occasion of being married for nineteen years. I love you best, mon coeur.
I do not pluck the petals
from a daisy to know,
for what can a wildflower
tell me of love?
Oh, tender flower…
Can your petals tell me more than his hand in the dark,
drawing the lines of my face?
More than his mouth pressed to my skin
where the blackbird flies from my shoulder?
Can you tell me the answer
when my eyes ask the question,
“do you love me?”
Oh! How could you know?
You bloom in the sun for only a season;
stand in the rain from summer ‘til frost.
But the sun has arisen to shine on this love
all these days–six thousand nine hundred thirty-nine.
And what a storm brings to bear with the
fiercest of winds that could flatten your golden field,
leaves this love rising strong from the soil of the
earth, rooted deep in the ground.
No, you can’t know,
precious flower, what
only he knows as he
cradles my heart in his hands.
So at the day’s end, sweet little daisy,
hold onto your petals so tight.
For somewhere there’s a girl who simply must ask
“does he love me?” and only you know.
But for me, there’s no doubt, no
question you can answer.
My eyes, they ask;
his hold what I know…
…he loves me…
…he loves me…
…he loves me
©️stephanie pepper, 2020